


Something of Vengeance

by Blackletter



Category: Jeeves - Wodehouse, Jeeves and Wooster, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-15
Updated: 2009-11-15
Packaged: 2017-10-02 21:17:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 82,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackletter/pseuds/Blackletter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is retired but not gone.  When an old enemy seeks vengeance, Holmes and Watson must travel back to London to stop the villain before their lives are destroyed.  (Holmes/Watson)</p><p>Bertie Wooster loves detective stories, but he never imagined that he'd be in one, and if he had, he would not have imagined that he would be the bait in a villainous plot. (Jooster)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Two Parcels

**Author's Note:**

> **Author Notes**: Great thanks to bernie_laraemie without whom this novel would have been much shorter and wouldn't have had much of a plot. Also _multas gratias ago_ to janeturenne for invaluable help with the final polish. You two are my Alpha and Omega Betai. And thanks to my flist, especially erynn999 for reading early drafts of each chapter and cheerleading all the way and encouraging me to write smut. And also amedia for the occasional philosophy consult.

_From the pen of Bertram W. Wooster: In which Bertie Wooster introduces his good readers to the cast and encounters our villain._

Chapter 1: Two Parcels

Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson stood in my sitting room, casual as can be, as if calls from famous detectives and their equally famous biographers were as unsurprising as visits from old chums. The parcel they were so concerned about-

Blast and bother, I think I've missed the mark again, left the gate before the shot, started too much in the _media_ of the _res_, if you get my meaning. It's a special sort of trick writers do to get the ball rolling quickly. All the great authors do it. Homer and...well...I know Homer does it and that should be good enough for anyone. It's a dashed tricky thing to get right, though, and I never seem to manage it properly no matter how often I try. There's only one thing for it; I'll start over again from the beginning so you understand what I'm on about regarding Holmes and Watson in my sitting room.

The day that my life went all topsy-turvy started out as splendid a day as one could wish for. It was the sort of day when birds were singing and children playing, an all's-right-in-the-world kind of day, the sort that inspires bards to begin a cheery bit of song with the words "as I went forth one bright spring day." On that beautiful morning (well, I say morning, but in truth it was closer to midday) I walked out for a leisurely, pre-luncheon stroll, intending to go first to the post office, then to the tailor to be fitted for a new coat, seeing as the old one, Jeeves informed me, was indecently tattered at the bottom hem.

On the off chance you haven't heard of him before, Jeeves is my valet, and there's not a cleverer man in all of England, possibly the world. There is no problem so obscure, so labyrinthine that Jeeves can't solve it, and if the immensity of his intellect alone weren't enough to garner admiration, his elegant appearance would finish the job. Tall and broad shouldered, with black hair brilliantined into a perfect shine and a jaw line like a Hollywood movie star, Jeeves cuts quite a figure wherever he goes.

I imagine you even now scratching your head and speculating on the unusual degree of awe and wonder I have for my manservant. It may shock and horrify you to learn that I'd developed quite a pash for my gentleman's personal gentleman, although I want to stress that went to great pains to do nothing dishonourable. Jeeves and I lived in amiable camaraderie, and I wasn't about to go doing anything to jeopardize it. The most gentlemanly thing to do would have been to dismiss him from my service with a good reference, for even the secret joy I took in his hands pressing on my shoulders as he straightened my dining jacket was, I thought, more liberty than he'd be comfortable with me taking if he knew about it. I could not, however, bear to let him go. So I steeled myself to let not a hint of impropriety slip and kept things _in statu quo_. A life with Jeeves in it, even if he did not love me, was better than a life with no Jeeves at all.

But enough about Jeeves. Back to my story.

The sun was warm on my face and my step light. I smiled and gave a merry greeting to everyone I passed, thinking that this was the sort of boomps-a-daisy day that a man lived for. In short, everything was oojah-cum-spiff, not the sort of day that a chap expected to be filled with criminals and detectives and kidnapping and murder.

Now, you're probably saying to yourself, "What are you blathering about, Bertram Wilberforce Wooster? Murder? Kidnapping? You've been reading those crime novels again, haven't you?" Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I have read a few corking books about clever detectives no so long ago, but that's beside the point. The _point_ is that this was not some fanciful daydream cooked up by a mind addled, as Jeeves himself would attest were you to ask him, and Jeeves, as you must have surmised from my description of him, is not the sort of cove who goes in for wool-gathering, nor, I suspect, has an addle ever been near the vicinity of his wits. If you will read on, you'll see that I do not lie nor exaggerate the seriousness of the matter in which I was involved.

I was ambling to the post office with a parcel in hand. Jeeves usually takes care of the post, but I thought since I was going out I might as well deliver it myself. Inside the parcel was my newest manuscript to be sent to the publisher, a little thing about how Jeeves saved me from marriage to Stiffy Byng by advising me to pretend to be my own nonexistent twin brother. Rounding out the action was a scene with the odious Madeline Bassett stuck on the roof of Totleigh Towers and an embarrassing bit about me chasing a badger around the bedroom. While I'd been in the midst of it all humour had been the last thing on my mind, but now that the affair was over and done with I thought that it might be good for a laugh or two. Still, all's well that ends well, and Jeeves comes out of it looking brainy as ever, even if yours truly was a bit of a dunce about the whole matter. But that's another story.

Parcel in one hand and whangee in the other, I ambled down the lane, humming as I went. As I passed a corner, not looking where I was going, I collided with a fellow who was striding on a path perpendicular to my own. Hat, parcel and stick went flying in the air as the Wooster corpus tumbled to the ground. The chap whom I ran into was in a similar state and I began to offer my sincere apologies, but the man snarled a few ripe words that would have made my Aunt Agatha gnash her teeth in condemnation had she been there. Then he snatched up his belongings and darted on his way before I'd so much as picked myself off the pavement.

"Of all the bally nerve! Knocking me to the ground like that and then running off without so much as a 'sorry' or a 'beg pardon,'" I said to myself, wincing at what was sure to be a magnificent bruise on my billowy portions. I dusted off my important parcel and inspected the packaging for tears. To my delight, the plain, brown wrapping was none the worse for wear, but that brief moment of relief was quickly dashed to the ground when I saw the address written on the parcel. It was not my publisher's address, and this, I realized, was not my parcel. The rude chap must have been carrying a parcel, too, one much like mine. He had grabbed mine by mistake and left me with his.

My heart stuttered at the sight. I looked up and down the street, but he was nowhere to be seen. I was at a loss what to do. There was no return address on the parcel, so there was no way for me to track the man down and make an exchange. I had to rest my mind on the expectation that he, upon finding himself in a similar state as I _vis a vis_ parcel confusion, would endeavour to seek me out. With this feeble hope, I, abandoning my appointment with the tailor, turned my heels and hied myself homeward quick as I could.

When I arrived back at my flat, I dumped the parcel on the sideboard as soon as I stepped in the door. In a panicked torrent of words, I told Jeeves all about the events of my walk, ignoring the distasteful look he was giving my topping new cobalt blue hat as he took it from me and held it between thumb and forefinger as if it were befouled.

"And then he just ran off, taking my parcel with him and leaving his own behind. I don't need to explain to you, Jeeves, how crucial it is that I get my parcel back."

"No, indeed, sir."

"It's my only copy. The publisher insisted that it be on his desk at the end of the week. I must find the man who ran off with it."

"And the parcel he left gives no clues to his identity?"

"None at all. See for yourself." I passed the parcel to Jeeves. Jeeves examined it closely; a slight furrow creased his brow.

"Most peculiar."

"Yes, exactly! Most peculiar," I agreed readily. Then it dawned on me to wonder. "What's peculiar, Jeeves?"

"This parcel. Although the wrapping is very neatly done, indicating that the sender considers the contents worthy of great care, there is no return address, which implies that the sender does not want the parcel to be traced back to him. And the sending address is the offices of the _The Daily Mail_. The most obvious explanation is that the man is a freelance journalist or photographer. The parcel is too thick, however, to contain merely a newspaper article, and it is not stiff enough to suppose that the contents are photographic in nature. Thus, our man is not likely to be a reporter or photographer. Judging from his desire for anonymity, and the reputation of the newspaper in question, the most likely scenario is that he is a purveyor of salacious gossip who was sending the paper evidence of some clandestine and newsworthy matter, but wishes his identity to remain unknown, possibly for fear of reprisal."

"You mean we're sitting on top of what could be a major scandal?"

"I think it eminently possible, sir."

The parcel, with its bland, brown wrapping and white string seemed a good deal more sinister than it had a few moments ago. "Perhaps we should destroy it, then. We'd be doing some poor fellow a good turn."

Jeeves, however, was dubious. "Consider, sir, that the person or persons in question may be engaged in some genuinely illegal or reprehensible activity. Then would it not be in the best interests of the public for these deeds to be brought to light and justice done?"

"By Jove, I never thought of that! Good thing I have you here with me, otherwise I'd have gone and burnt them and unwittingly protected some vile criminal."

"While the documents may contain evidence of criminal activity, it is merely a possibility, not a certainty. We should therefore proceed with caution."

"Of course. I will be guided by you, as always. You've never led me astray yet."

"Thank you for your confidence, sir."

"So, what do I do?"

"I'm afraid my ability to offer advice is limited by my lack of knowledge. Until we know what the parcel contains, I cannot say what we should do with it."

"Ah, so we should wait and see if the fellow who dropped it turns up and then ask him whether he's hounding some innocent chap who made one or two honest but embarrassing mistakes--as can happen to the best of us--or whether he's championing the side of justice and bringing some hitherto unknown scoundrel to light?"

"We could do that, sir. I, however, recommend a more direct approach."

"More direct than asking the chap outright?" I asked.

"You could open the parcel and ascertain its contents."

I was horrified. "Oh no, I couldn't possibly do that. Tamper with someone's private mail? That's simply not on, Jeeves."

"If I may, I should like to remind you that you have, under certain extenuating circumstances, done such before, sir. The incident with Sir Watkyn's memoir--"

"Which was a disaster. Besides, I only did it under…derision…durancy…what's the word I'm looking for, Jeeves? The one that means that I was an unwilling participant in the whole affair."

"Duress, I believe."

"Are you sure?"

"Quite sure, sir."

"Right, duress, then. I only did it under duress." In truth, I was curious about what might be in the parcel, but everyone knows curiosity eradicated the infelicitous feline. And opening some other chap's mail was not the act of a _preux chevalier_, no matter how curious one might be. I stared at the parcel. It must have been my imagination, but I could almost swear that it was drawing all the objects in the room, including me, closer to it, as if it exerted a force of gravity quite exceeding its size. If Jeeves had not uttered a delicate cough, and thereby broken the spell, I don't doubt that all the furniture would have ended up pressed against the sideboard on which the parcel sat, lured in by its pull.

"Something you want to say, Jeeves?"

"I have a possible solution to your dilemma."

"Speak on."

"As I understand it, we must know the contents of the parcel before making a decision regarding it; however, honour forbids you to open the parcel."

"That is correct."

"Perhaps, sir, if _I_ were to open the parcel, we might discover the contents whilst not compromising your honour."

This, my friends, it what makes Jeeves marvellous. He can think his way out of any quandary. There doesn't exist a problem so abstruse that Jeeves can't see a way through it.

"Corking idea, Jeeves! You open it and tell me what it is. Thus armed with knowledge, we can plan our strategy."

"Very good, sir."

Jeeves had just whipped out a penknife to cut the twine when the doorbell rang. He must have come to the same conclusion I did, namely, that the owner of the parcel had come to claim his property, for without a word, he tucked the parcel out of sight in the drinks cabinet behind a bottle of sherry. We wouldn't want the man grabbing the thing and running off with it without providing a word of explanation, or, for that matter, giving me my own parcel back.

I scampered to the centre of the room and tried to look nonchalant. Nonchalance is a surprisingly hard state to mimic. My arms dangled awkwardly and I reached for a cigarette and match just to give them something to do.

Jeeves opened the door and our visitor walked in. Or visitors, I should say, for there were two, and neither of them was the man who had run off with my parcel. I'd never seen either of them before in my life, and I couldn't fathom what brought them to my threshold. They were both older gentlemen, but apart from that they were as opposite from each other in form and feature as two men could be.

The one who commanded my attention at first was tall and thin with steely grey hair the exact same shade as his cold eyes. He had a narrow, fierce sort of face that reminded me of Sir Watkyn Bassett sitting on the judge's bench. I had the sudden almost uncontrollable urge to start begging for mercy from the court. The other man was shorter but robust, broad of chest and square of jaw, with the look and manner of a kindly uncle. His hair and moustache were both snowy white and he had a certain animated glint in his hazel eyes. Although they were together, I detected a certain chilly thingness between them in the way they stood slightly apart.

The steely-eyed man stepped forward and addressed me. "Mr. Wooster, I presume."

"You presume correctly. Who--?"

"My name is Sherlock Holmes. This is my companion and biographer Dr. John Watson."

My wits fluttered away like so many birds and my mouth gaped. Of all the unexpected things that had so far happened that day, this was the most unexpected of all. "I…Sherlock Holmes? _The_ Sherlock Holmes? 'World's first consulting detective' Sherlock Holmes? This is…I never expected…" I grinned ear to ear and for a moment words failed me. "Come in! Jeeves, take care of them will you?"

But Jeeves, in very un-Jeevesian manner, did not hop at once to obey the young master. His general appearance was as composed as ever, but I thought I detected a trace of hostility in his expression.

"How can we be certain that you are indeed who you say you are?" Jeeves asked. My jaw dropped, aghast at such blatant suspicion against our famous guests.

"My card?"

"Easily forged."

"Our appearance?"

"Inconclusive. A clever confidence trickster would tailor his false identity to his natural appearance, purporting to be someone to whom he bore a close resemblance."

Holmes, for I was already convinced that it was the great detective even if Jeeves wasn't, was looking a bit put out by this interrogation. "I'm afraid I didn't think to carry my birth certificate with me when I came to London," he spoke. "I can tell you, however, that I have no interest in Mr. Wooster's fortune, merely in the packet he carried here. That packet, which you were about to open before Watson and I rang the bell, contains documents I'm eager to recover."

There was a long silence as the two paragons of intellect stared at each other. I'd never before thought to wonder what would happen if Jeeves's great brain were ever to encounter a mind equal to his own. Indeed, I had suspected that such a mind didn't exist, but now I was forced to reconsider that opinion and to wonder if a mental scrap between the two of them would destroy civilization as we know it.

Fortunately, the fate of civilization was safe, for at last Jeeves said, "As you say, Mr. Holmes. May I take your hat?" Instantly, the tension in the room diminished. As I shook their hands, a wondrous thought occurred to me.

"Wait a minute, you called me 'Mr. Wooster.' How the devil did you know my name? No wait, let me guess, you deduced it from my initials on the inner brim of my hat and from the knees of my trousers."

Holmes smirked but Watson answered, "He asked the doorman."

Holmes gave Watson a narrow-eyed look. "You do enjoy spoiling my reputation, don't you?"

Watson's lips tightened but he gave no reply. Holmes's eyes darted about the flat. "You are a bachelor, I see, and an orphan. You have no particular occupation, but you spend a fair amount of time writing. You are right-handed, smoke Embassy cigarettes and have a talent for music."

I was delighted by the display of his noted powers of observation and deduction. "By Jove, you're right in every respect! That's amazing! Just like the stories. How did you know I like music?"

Holmes unfurled a long-fingered hand in the direction of the far corner. "There is a piano, well loved and of excellent make, rather prominently taking up space in the room. A mere glance at the musculature of your fingers confirms that you are a pianist."

"Marvellous! And the bit about me being a bachelor?"

"Even a blind man could see that this flat is completely devoid of feminine influence. Furthermore, you wear no wedding ring."

"And the writing?"

"A writing callus on your right middle finger, which also, incidentally, tells me which is your preferred hand. There are also ink stains on your fingers, and a crease on your sleeve where your arm rests on the edge of the desk or table where you write."

"The Embassy cigarettes?"

"You're smoking one right now."

I look down at the lit cigarette hanging forgotten in my grip. "Oh, right." I thought back to his list of deductions. "Wait a minute, how the devil did you know that I was an orphan? Surely you can't read that on the cuff of my sleeve or the calluses of my fingers."

He replied smugly, "That, I confess, was a bit of a long shot, but it clearly paid off. I see over the mantelpiece only one family portrait, and that one is quite old--you cannot be more than two or three years old. There are no other pictures of your parents. If you were estranged from your family, there would be no portrait, so my hypothesis was that they died shortly after that portrait was taken, hence the lack of anything more up to date."

"That's just corking!" I grinned. "Please, sit down. Would you like a drink? Jeeves, fetch the gentlemen a drink. And a whiskey and s. for me as well. Perhaps you'd like to stay for lunch?"

"No thank you," Holmes said. "I would not wish to intrude upon your hospitality."

"Of course, of course." said I. I couldn't contain my excitement at seeing bits and pieces of stories read long ago re-enacted in real life; it wasn't every day that your childhood heroes dropped by for a chat. "No food or rest until it's done, what? If you need to smoke, though, to stimulate your thoughts, do feel free. As you deduced, I'm partial to a ciggie or two myself. I know all your habits, you see. I read all your adventures as a lad." I turned to Watson. "And Dr. Watson, I...words fail me, they really do; you were my favourite author as a child. The tops. The real tabasco. In fact, I can say that I was in some small part inspired by you to put pen to paper and see what comes out, starting with 'What the Well-Dressed Man is Wearing', for my Aunt Dahlia's ladies magazine and sort of continuing on from there. I've even published a few stories. I don't suppose you've read any of them?"

"I can't say that I have, Mr. Wooster," Dr. Watson politely replied.

"Oh." A prick of disappointment jabbed in my chest. Dr. Watson must have noticed, for his expression softened into a consoling smile.

"Holmes and I lead a rather isolated life these days. Aside from the newspapers, I've read few things less than a decade old."

"If we're done with the small talk," Holmes snapped, "time is of the essence. The packet that you picked up after your collision on Grosvenor Street, is it intact?"

When I answered in the positive, a wave of tension flowed out of him. "Good," he said. "That's good. It is imperative that you give the packet to me."

"Anything you want, you need but ask. Bertram Wooster is ready to help bring down the criminal." Although I knew nothing about whatever case brought Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson to my door, I was keen that Jeeves and I should do all in our power to assist. Speaking of Jeeves, "I say, Jeeves suspected that the parcel contained some sort of damaging information. Are you on the trail of a blackmailer, then? Some modern 'Charles Augustus Milverton?'"

"The less you know, the better," Holmes replied, dashing my hopes for hearing the whole tale and sharing in the wonder of the case as it unfolded.

I would have dropped the matter, but Jeeves spoke up on my behalf. "If Mr. Wooster has inadvertently involved himself, I believe that it would be wise for him to know the situation."

Holmes stared off into the distance, his thoughts turned inward. We waited in silence. I almost imagined that I could hear Holmes's thoughts whirring and clicking like some sort of precise mechanical device. It was a remarkable thing to watch a mind as sharp as Jeeves's while away at a problem, but where Jeeves in contemplation took on a calm, statue-like repose, Holmes had the appearance of a man trying to detach his mind from his body, like one of those psychic whatsits. I decided that Jeeves's style of deliberation was a good sight less unnerving and wondered how Watson had put up with it, for I knew that I certainly would not have been able to.

At last, Dr. Watson spoke up, breaking the silence. "He has a point. Roberson is going to come here, and they should be informed of the danger."

Startled from his thoughts, Holmes fixed his gaze on Watson. "Quite right. I will tell them what they need to know.

"The man we face is named Marcus Roberson. He is a criminal of the vilest sort. Many years ago, through my efforts, he was sentenced to prison. He should have hanged for murder, but key evidence rather conveniently went missing. His grandfather, who was a merchant tradesman, became very rich through his shipping investments, and Roberson inherited great wealth. It's likely that he paid a small fortune to arrange for the miscarriage of justice."

"Wait a moment," I said. "I don't remember a villain by the name of Marcus Roberson in any of your adventures."

Watson answered, "I never wrote up that case. It was unpleasant in ways that _The Strand_ readership wasn't ready for."

Holmes continued as if the interruption hadn't happened. "He was released from prison not two weeks ago, and his only thought is revenge. The packet you have contains his first salvo against me. I would be exceedingly grateful if you would turn it over to me." He held out his hand to accept the parcel.

"Of course, old chap!" I opened the cupboard in which the parcel was stashed and handed it over. Holmes glanced at it once, then tucked it under his arm. "Glad to help out Mr. Sherlock Holmes. The fellows back at the Drones will hardly believe it when I tell them about this."

"I'd rather that you didn't."

"Oh. All hush hush, then, what? I suppose I can see the sense in that." I paused a moment, hesitant to speak my mind, but my curiosity could not be contained. "I don't suppose you could…well…tell us what's inside the parcel?"

I immediately regretted the prying. It was not very _preux chevalier_ of me, and the dark look Holmes gave me, wearing an expression as blank and immobile as a white mask, made me deeply uneasy. Only after a long and disconcertingly intense search of my features, after which I felt as if I'd been stripped bare, turned over, and shaken so all the hidden pieces fell out, did Holmes consent to speak. I expected to be brushed off; therefore, no one was more surprised than I when he actually gave an answer--of a sort. "It's a series of manuscripts, which Watson committed to paper without my knowledge, containing various details of my private affairs, which I do not wish to be made public."

I frowned. "I say, I didn't think that there could be even more extraordinary details about your life than the ones that Dr. Watson had already provided. I mean, I suppose I could fill whole volumes just about Jeeves puttering about the flat, but the material there tends to be lacking in excitement, so I've been told. I suppose, however, that we all have private comings and goings we'd rather not have known to the wide world, and I can only imagine that dealing with the criminal classes increases the likelihood of such things. I myself have only met a pair of confidence tricksters who, although they were dashed roguish, must certainly be on a low mark on the scale of nefarious villains. Where you're concerned, however, everyone who reads _The Strand_ knows that you don't always act in an entirely upright fashion if it helps solve the case. Breaking and entering, burglary, spying, impersonating a clergyman, getting engaged under false pretense, although I always wondered if that was really part of your plan or just an unfortunate accident. In my experience, accidental engagements happen quite often. Anyway, where was I, oh yes, given all that, plus the opiates, black moods, and indoor target practice, I can't imagine anything short of cold-blooded murder would surprise anyone." The thought struck me and I added, nervously, "You didn't murder anyone, I hope."

When he didn't reply, I laughed uneasily and continued, thinking it best that I get off the subject of murder. "I can think of little I have had to hide, myself, and certainly the closest I've come to any of that would be a touch of indoor cricket at the Drone's Club. Not exactly riveting stuff or breaking any laws, and if you'd dabbled in such things one thinks one would have heard something about it, although there are certainly some improprieties that one never hears about, that one doesn't talk about, because one can't talk about it, even if one might want to..."

At first I assumed a majestic woodland creature had momentarily broken in, interrupted me with a dignified clearing of the throat, and then, mission accomplished, biffed back to its pleasant pasture or rolling meadow, such was the resonance of the sound, which was over almost as soon as it was uttered. Slating that to the preposterous I sought a new explanation and I shortly I came upon one. From the glances they exchanged, it occurred to me that, for whatever reason, Jeeves had issued a low warning cough at the same moment that Dr. Watson was about to utter some sort of protest, his eyes wide with alarm. Holmes, nearly a part of the wallpaper inasmuch as he hadn't moved and wasn't keen on contributing to immediate conversation, had fixed his soul-stripping gaze on Jeeves.

There was a long and awkward silence. It was Holmes who ended this l. and a. s. with an affronted snort. "No, I didn't murder anyone. And thank you so much for listing every way in which Watson has betrayed my confidence and privacy over the years."

"Well," I started, "In all fairness--"

"Holmes," Watson said, his expression pained. "Please don't be like that. If I'd known you hated it, I would have stopped, but all you criticized was a lack of scientific dispassion. You never said a word about disapproving of my characterization of you."

"I don't think it was all that disparaging, really--"

Holmes interrupted me. "I can't claim that your depiction is inaccurate, but perhaps I should have paid more attention to your habitual lack of discretion. Then I would not be in this situation now."

They seemed on the verge of a tremendous row. I'd seen similar rigid expressions on cousin Angela and Tuppy Glossop when one had taken grave offence at something the other said or did and was about to let loose the invective and encourage the boiling of heads and all that noise. Jeeves apparently sensed it as well, and wisely put a stop to it with another one of his gentle coughs, that of a contented sheep clearing its throat on a distant hill.

"Gentlemen," Jeeves said. "If this Roberson is as fierce and wrathful as you say, he will undoubtedly want to retrieve his parcel. Unfortunately, on account of his possession of Mr. Wooster's own parcel, Roberson knows precisely where he might find it. One would hope for assistance in seeing to Mr. Wooster's safety before dealing out recriminations."

In all the excitement, I'd plum forgotten that the blighter had my parcel and ergo my address. It hadn't occurred to me that I might be in any danger.

"He's right, Holmes," Watson said. "This young man and his manservant aren't safe."

"As always, you state the obvious." Holmes' tone was coldly oblivious to the hurt that flashed across Watson's face. I was starting to wonder if Watson's portrayal of the two of them as great chums was all a bunch of literary whatsit.

"Perhaps it would be best for Mr. Wooster to leave town," Jeeves said. "A visit to Brinkley Court, sir?"

"No," Holmes said, his face fox-like in contemplation. "We have an opportunity here, if Mr. Wooster is willing to assist."

I'm not embarrassed to say that I was a trifle nervous about confronting a known murderer, but I could not in good conscience refuse; the Code of the Woosters would not allow it. Besides, under the fear there ran a current of excitement that was dragging the fear down in the undertow and drowning it in the deep.

"I'd be chuffed to lend a hand in whatever way you see fit," I said. "A man's home is his castle, don't you know, and I'm not going to abandon the fort, as it were. We Woosters are made of sterner stuff."

"Do you really think such a course of action is wise, sir?" Jeeves said.

This was turning out to be the most adventuresome day in my life, complete with dastardly rogue and clever detective--like something out of a novel--and Jeeves wanted to pack me up and take me away from it all. His protectiveness was flattering, I suppose, but dashed inconvenient. I was going to have none of it. "Pshaw." I replied. "I was here for the start and I'll see it through to the end. That's the Wooster way."


	2. Out of Retirement

_From the pen of Dr. John H. Watson: In which Holmes and Watson are on the trail of our villain._

Chapter 2: Out of Retirement

_Twelve hours earlier..._

The late night train ride from Sussex to London was conducted in near silence, the only sound the steady click-click-click of the carriage on the rails. At home, Holmes had his fill of castigating me in every way possible, calling me ten kinds of fool. There was apparently nothing now he wished to say to me, and when I spoke to him, he gave not a hint of response, but merely stared out the window into the darkness and watched the lights of distant towns flicker on the horizon.

Sherlock Holmes was often a man of subtle emotions, so subtle that in our early acquaintance I suspected that he had no true emotions at all, only facsimiles put upon for the benefit of the world. After four decades, however, I had become quite adept at reading his moods. This was not the first time I had seen Holmes's fury, chilly as a midwinter's killing frost, but not since the day I had told him of my engagement to Mary had his cold and biting wrath been directed at me.

He was not wrong to blame me for our current trouble. I am man enough to admit my mistakes, and I confess that it _was_ foolish to commit into writing anything detailing my private life with Holmes. My motives were pure, but Holmes cared little for motives unless they led to the solving of a case. He certainly did not care to hear me explain mine. I was not wholly incautious; I was not so blind that I did not realize how compromising my writings would be were they made public. I had them locked away, safe, or so I thought, in the vaults of Cox and Co. How the deuce the villain even discovered their existence I was sure I would never know.

The silence had stretched on for too long. "If you're not going to say a word to me, Holmes, I'm not sure why you insisted I come with you."

He did not look at me, but he spoke for the first time since we had entered the compartment together. His voice was distant and without inflection. "This disaster might require two people to avert it. There was no one else whom I could call on such short notice."

His words should not have hurt as much as they did. I was well aware of Holmes's inclination to callous practicality. "So I was convenient. How flattering. I do hope that's not the basis for all facets of our relationship."

Holmes flicked a quick glance my way before turning back to the window. "Insecurity doesn't become you," he muttered against the glass. Louder, he said, "Furthermore, you are the cause of this mess. It is only right that you put some effort into working towards a solution."

"So you're giving me an opportunity to atone," I said, eagerly. "In that case, I readily accept the task. I know that what I did was imprudent, and I'm sorry. I'll do whatever it takes to earn your forgiveness."

"This isn't atonement, and you don't need to earn my forgiveness. I am very angry with you, Watson. I will continue to be very angry with you until I am not. Your apologies, no matter how earnest and profuse, will not expedite this process." Holmes paused then. I wished I could see his face better, attempt to read his expression, but the lamp was dim and his eyes were sunk in shadow. "You cannot undo your mistake, no matter how much you may wish to."

"Holmes-"

With a wave of his thin hand he brushed aside my appeal and I lapsed into silence. Holmes was right. What was done could not be undone, and Holmes would either forgive me for it or he would not. Either way I could do nothing but leave him to his thoughts, give him my support as I always have done, and wait.

We reached London in the small, dark hours of the morning and took a room near the station. It was small and draughty with only a few rickety sticks of furniture, but it was conveniently located and neither of us cared to waste our time looking for something more suitable. I fell into the bed, so exhausted that I scarce noticed the scratchy texture of the sheets, and left Holmes sitting Indian-style on a hard chair smoking cigarette after cigarette. When I woke at dawn, after only a few hours of restless slumber, he was in exactly the same space and posture, and I knew that he had not slept at all. All the years of semi-retirement had not changed him one bit. Whenever a rare case came up, he immediately, and much to my dismay, fell back into his old habits, neglecting food and rest until the case was solved. As each year passed, his bouts of self-imposed deprivation affected his health more and more severely.

"Holmes, you shouldn't do this to yourself. At your age-"

"At my age, Watson? Not long ago you remarked that I was in the best of health."

"Yes, miraculously so, given the abusive way you treat your body. That doesn't mean that overwork and lack of sleep could not drive you into a sudden stroke. You're not immortal."

"I shall rest when this case is finished, which will be soon, whether I'm successful or not." He plucked an envelope from the desktop and displayed it to me with a little flourish. "Roberson says that he's going to send the documents to the press on Saturday. Today. So by this evening, either the documents will be retrieved and we can go home peacefully, or the documents will not be retrieved and we can go home and await public condemnation and probable arrest. Either way it will be over. Now, to work." He handed me the envelope, with its malicious little note inside it. "Tell me what you make of it."

"Holmes, this is no time to-"

"On the contrary, it is essential. Read it first."

"I've read it once; I have no desire to have that villain's words inflicted on me a second time."

"His words are important. Read it. Out loud."

The words, like a hundred sharp little tacks, lodged in my throat before I could even begin. I coughed once and read:

_My Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes,_

It has been many years since we last encountered one another. I do hope you have not forgotten me, for I assure you that I have not forgotten you. You will be interested to know that I am once more free to move about in the world, and plan to make good use of my new-found liberty.

I have in my possession certain notes of a biographical nature written by your dear companion. I suspect that they were written without your knowledge or consent and that you are ignorant of their content, for I cannot imagine that you would have permitted their continued existence had you been aware of them. I assure you that they are most shocking. The public, the press, and especially the police will be outraged to learn what sordid things you have kept hidden from them. We will see for ourselves on Saturday, when I bring the information to the attention of a certain London newspaper.

I will destroy you, Mr. Holmes. I will destroy your reputation, your honour, and your life.

You are, perhaps, now wondering why I have given you this warning, why I choose to show my hand so soon. The answer, sir, is quite simple. The dread that foreknowledge of your destruction will give you will be a sweet aperitif to the torment yet to come. I imagine you in your room, your dear doctor at your side, driven into a frenzy of alarm at the receipt of this letter. I confess the image pleases me greatly.

Most sincerely,

Marcus Roberson

I paused to collect myself. I could not read the note without feeling a sick rolling in the pit of my stomach, a mixture of disgust and dread. Holmes, however, impatiently urged me on.

"Continue," he said.

"Well," I attempted to put the contents of the note out of my mind and simply examine its form. I held it up to the light and peered at it, both to give it the sort of close inspection Holmes was demanding and to stall for time while I endeavoured to, as Holmes would say, observe what I saw. "The envelope is postmarked from Westminster. Other than that I can see nothing remarkable about it. The note itself is written on good quality paper, heavy but fine grained. There's some sort of watermark, but it's difficult to make out in this light. Italian manufacture?"

"Belgian, Watson, Belgian. The watermark is Dumont et Cie��"the language is clearly French. The company is an expensive manufacturer of paper located in Brussels."

I dropped the paper on the scarred writing desk. "I don't know why I bother doing this. You've already come to your own conclusions and appear to wish simply to mock my attempts."

"Don't be foolish, Watson-"

"You're not doing much to disprove my point."

"When you work your way through all the steps, slowly, it allows me to do the same, and catch any errors or details I may have overlooked."

"And what, pray tell, do you think are the chances that you overlooked something?"

"Small, I grant you. Still the possibility exists, and I like to take precautions." Holmes lit another cigarette and exhaled a thin swirl of smoke before he continued. "You are correct as far as it goes, although you observed nothing beyond the obvious. Yes, the paper is high quality. Yes, it has a watermark. But what does that tell you? What can you deduce?"

My temper broke. "I can deduce nothing," I growled. "Nothing beyond the obvious fact that this man wants to destroy us, and yet aside from your constant recriminations of me for my carelessness, you don't seem terribly distressed by it. I'm beginning to think that the breach of privacy bothers you more than the potential gaol sentence."

Holmes raised one eyebrow, looking at me as if I were an inmate escaped from Bedlam. He blinked once and held out his hand for the note, which I passed to him with a resigned sigh. Holmes spoke as if my outburst had not happened. "He can't have been in London long enough to establish himself in permanent rooms, so he is probably at a hotel. He has lost none of his taste for the finer things in life; the paper and the fine quality of the ink tell us that. The pen used is likewise extravagant. It has a broad, 18 karat gold nib, probably a Simplo, the Meisterstück model. You can see clearly the fine flexibility in the strokes of each letter. Most telling, however, is the clue you have failed to notice, namely, the scent of wall paint that lingers on the paper. That narrows the field down considerably. We must look for a well-to-do hotel in Westminster that is currently being or recently has been repainted."

"He must know that you could track the stationary," I pointed out. "What if this newly painted hotel isn't in Westminster? He could have taken a cab from his hotel and posted it from a different borough just to throw you off the trail. We can't go traipsing about smelling the lobbies of every first-rate hotel in London. We'd never find the right one in time."

"Ah, but you forget to take into account Roberson himself, the sort of man he is. Arrogant. Vindictive. He wants me to track him. He wants a confrontation. After all, he sent the note, knowing that I would come."

The thought disturbed me. I indeed knew what sort of man Roberson was: violent, sadistic, ruthless, and cruel. Holmes's first encounter with the villain left him with a deep scar where Roberson had stabbed him in the side; I feared what damage he might inflict this time. "You will be careful, Holmes, won't you? If you think Roberson is leading you into a trap��""

Holmes scoffed in irritation. "You needn't carry on so. I'm quite capable of outwitting Roberson."

I said nothing in reply, for in the mood he was in, Holmes would likely take any rebuttal as an excuse for an argument, but I swore to myself that I would keep my service revolver with me at all times until this deadly business was complete.

We began our search at the Savoy Hotel. The concierge looked on in distress as Holmes darted here and there about the lobby, inspecting the corners and fluttering light touches over the walls and finally accosting a maid and interrogating her. When a bellhop was summoned ��"a large, broad shouldered young man��"I thought it best to intervene before Holmes was bodily removed from the premises.

"I beg your pardon, sir," I said, handing the concierge my card and interrupting him before he could give the order to have Holmes evicted. "My name is Dr. John Watson and my eccentric friend is Mr. Sherlock Holmes. We're terribly sorry to intrude like this, but we're investigating a case and believe that we may find a lead in your hotel."

"Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson?" The concierge's face rumpled in an expression that was part perplexity, part disbelief, and part awe. It was as if I had told him that Ottoman Emperor and his vizier had dropped by for tea and a spot of rugby.

"Yes. We won't be long, and we'll try not to make too much of a disturbance."

The concierge did not appear entirely convinced, but he was diverted enough to do no more than stand and watch in bewilderment while Holmes flitted about the room. Soon, Holmes was done with his inspection. He shook his head in negative and drew me back out onto the street and to our cab, which had dutifully waited for us by the kerb.

In such a manner we worked our way through the hotels of Westminster. Holmes's pace was frenetic, and at each stop the wild speed with which he whirled through his examinations reminded me that time was of the essence. Each minute that passed increased the chance that Roberson had already left to post his treacherous packet. The looks our hired cabbie gave us became more and more curious each time Holmes ordered him to a new address with all speed.

After the fifth such stop, he queried as Holmes was stepping in the cab, "Look here, Messrs., I know I'm not paid to ask questions, but if it's good lodgings you're looking for surely it's a sight easier to just ask for one than to run about looking at each and every one of them."

"We're looking for a hotel with fresh paint," Holmes snapped.

"Particular about your place, aren't you?" If the cabbie noticed Holmes's sharp tone he was too mild natured to take it personally. "Well, if it's fresh paint you're after, then you'll want Claridge's. In Mayfair. It's got paint so fresh it's hardly dry."

With a keen look in his eye, Holmes leaned towards the cabbie. "Claridge's? You're sure."

"Sure as I am of anything. My wife Annie's a maid there. Been complaining to me about the fumes all week."

"How far away is it?"

"Just a few miles."

"Take us there as fast as you can." Holmes leapt into the cab. "There'll be a sovereign in it for you if you can get us there in less than ten minutes."

The driver stepped on the gas and sped down the street almost before Holmes had closed the door. I clenched my teeth and prayed that we wouldn't crash. Once or twice I had to grip Holmes's arm to keep from toppling into him as we turned a corner at breakneck speed. Holmes, much to my disgust, looked almost as if he were enjoying himself. His eyes were bright and his cheeks flushed with the excitement of the chase. We arrived at our destination in no time at all. Never was I so grateful to leave a cab.

As we climbed out, Holmes checked his fob watch. "Five and a half minutes. Excellent." He handed the cabbie the promised coin. "Come, Watson, there's no time to lose."

When we entered the foyer, even I could smell the chemical traces of fresh paint��"old enough to be dry, for there were no signs or barriers erected, but new enough to be apparent in the air. Sunshine glimmered down through a skylight, the rays refracted by an immense crystal chandelier into shards of light that patterned the walls. White arches lined the room, dripping with delicate filigree.

"I believe we're on the right scent," Holmes laughed. "The odour of the type of clay used in the pigment to create that light, golden hue is distinctive. Now to verify." Holmes walked to the desk and spoke briefly with the clerk. Moments later, he returned to my side with an expression of triumph on his face. "A man matching Roberson's description checked into the hotel one week ago. He has not yet checked out, nor has he been seen leaving the hotel today. We have him! All we have to do now is find ourselves a hidden alcove here in the lobby and wait."

"What's our plan?" I asked. In his pique, Holmes had yet to tell me what he intended to do once we found the man.

"We should avoid a direct altercation if possible. We will follow him, discreetly, and wait until he posts your imprudent scribblings. Once they are out of his hands, it should be simple enough to retrieve them from the postman." He added, with a delicate shrug of nonchalance, "I've intercepted mail before."

We found a table tucked discreetly behind one of the lobby's elegant, fluted pillars and we waited there for our quarry. It was nearly midday before Roberson appeared with a plain, brown packet tucked under his arm.

His time spent in gaol had changed his appearance. Gone were the soft, refined features I held in my darker memories. Youth and beauty had been stripped away by the hard decades, revealing the spindly, jagged ugliness of his soul. Still, as altered as he was, I couldn't fail to recognize those deep set eyes, plump lips and haughty mien. I shuddered at the sight of him.

Beside me, Holmes stiffened in his chair and leaned forward to touch my arm, whether to caution or to console, I couldn't be sure. Roberson was calm and assured. He did not peer about at his surroundings like a man being hunted, but sauntered across the lobby with insouciance and headed out the door.

We waited a few seconds more, Holmes coiled tight as a spring, ready to leap from his chair as soon as we could be sure that Roberson had truly left. At last, Holmes hissed, "Watson, come quickly. We can't let ourselves lose him."

Roberson was easy enough to trail. He moved at a steady and moderate speed and made no attempts to conceal his path in the throng of pedestrians who crowded the pavement. I was sure he was oblivious to our pursuit, yet I kept one hand in my pocket near my revolver nevertheless. I remembered how remarkably fast he could draw a weapon, even in the days while when he had all the appearance of harmlessness.

Then, at the corner of Davies and Grosvenor Street, the unforeseen occurred. Roberson collided hard with another man who was crossing his path. Holmes and I froze where we stood and watched man and packet fall to the ground.

"Holmes!" I pointed to the unknown young man who was even now rushing away with a brown packet under his arm.

"Roberson has one, too."

I turned to see that Roberson indeed carried a packet identical in size and shape. "Good Lord, they each have one!"

"Well spotted, Watson."

I ignored his temper. "Did you see what happened during the collision? Did they switch packets?"

Holmes hissed in frustration. "There were too many damned people in the way. I could observe nothing for certain, only that two packets were dropped."

"Do you think he planned it to throw us off?"

"Planned or not, we can't take the chance. I'll pursue Roberson; you follow the other gentleman. Go, Watson, quickly!" He rushed away and vanished in the crowd.

By now the other man had travelled so far that I could see only the top of his hat, and only that because of its distinctive blue colour. I hurried to catch up. Once he was well within my sight, he, like Roberson, was easy to follow. Within minutes I approached a large edifice with a sign that named it "Berkeley Mansions". The doorman greeted the fellow with an easy familiarity that implied he was either a resident or a frequent guest. Either way, Holmes would know how to find him. I returned to Grosvenor Street to wait for Holmes. I did not have to wait long.

"Luck may be with us today," he said as soon as he was at my side. "Roberson no longer has the incriminating papers and was, in fact, furious to have lost them. Do you know where the young man went?"

Pleased to finally have something useful to offer Holmes after all his upbraiding, I told him all I had seen as I led him towards Berkeley Mansions. It was wonderful to see hope again in his bright eyes instead of displeasure and grim resolve. When we reached our destination, Holmes darted up to the door with something close to his usual spryness.

"Excuse me," Holmes put on a charming smile as he spoke to the doorman, "A man whom I believe lives here dropped something of value. Might you give me his name and room number? He's a tall man, young, fair haired, wearing a grey suit with impeccable creases, a vacant expression, and an odd blue hat."

"Ah, yes, that would be Mr. Wooster in apartment 3A."

"Thank you." Holmes handed the man a coin and swept into the building. I trailed close behind and muttered to him as soon as I was sure we were out of earshot.

"I tell you, Holmes, the ease with which you lie frightens me."

"I did not lie. Mr. Wooster did indeed drop something."

"Manipulated the truth, then," I retorted.

"Real truth is firm, unyielding. It cannot be manipulated. Only a person's mind, with its faulty understanding, can be subjected to such influence." He assessed me with narrow eyes. "You should know that as well as anyone, purveyor of romance and distortions that you are."

So, I was not forgiven yet after all.


	3. Mr. Marcus Roberson

_From the pen of Bertram W. Wooster: In which Bertie gets himself into a great deal of trouble_

Chapter 3: Mr. Marcus Roberson

So, that's how I came to be in the remarkable posish of seeing Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson sitting on my sofa and smoking cigarettes. Although, to be accurate in my facts, as I'm sure Holmes would want, I should say that Dr. Watson was sitting on my sofa and Mr. Holmes was smoking cigarettes, for Holmes had not stopped moving since he'd arrived. He prowled about the room puffing away until Jeeves had to open a window for all the smoke.

"Will he come soon, do you think?" I asked.

Holmes replied. "He is not without cunning or patience. He will plan his next move, reconnoitre the building, perhaps befriend the doorman. He lost his advantage when he lost the packet and he won't strike until the moment is right."

"How long are we going to have to wait? It's going to get a bit crowded if we all have to bed down before he comes around. I've a limited number of beds, you know." Aside from my room and Jeeves's room, I had only the one guestroom. It would be unaccountably rude to force my guests to share a bed. Jeeves, I'm sure, would not be happy were I to displace him from his room. I supposed I could give up my room and get my eight hours with Jeeves, which, upon reflection, was not an unpleasant thought at all, although I suspect that Jeeves, with his dashed inconvenient feudal spirit and intense sense of privacy, would not approve.

Holmes wasn't at all troubled by the notion of night-time overcrowding. "If he chooses to come under the cover of darkness, which I think likely, it will be many hours yet before he shows himself, but I am sure he will not leave it later than tonight,." Holmes smiled grimly. "After all, he doesn't realize how close I am, and is undoubtedly hoping that he will retrieve the packet before I do. Watson, keep your revolver at hand in case I'm mistaken. Jeeves, a word with you, please." He motioned to Jeeves and the two of them stepped away into the dining room and spoke quietly amongst themselves. No orders were given to me. For all that this adventure was happening in my own rooms, I was beginning to feel quite shut out of it, as if I were reading it in _The Strand_ or watching it in the cinema. I wandered over to where Watson was seated. He looked as out of sorts as I felt.

Through the open doorway, I watched Jeeves and Holmes talk animatedly, pointing here and there about the room. Even from where I sat, I could see the keen concentration in the straight lines of Jeeves's shoulders and the tilt of his head. A funny little knot twisted in my stomach. "I say, they're getting along like pair of dear old school chums."

"Holmes has never been impressed by class distinction," Watson replied.

"A Communist?" I said with some surprise. In the stories, he was always perfectly chuffed to help out royalty.

"No, he's not political at all. He has no agenda, no desire to break the class system; he simply doesn't care about it. In his mind, a street urchin may have as much value as a baron. More, in some cases."

"Jeeves doesn't care for Communists. He's a good, old-fashioned sort of chap. Mind you, sometimes he takes it too far. He doesn't like to experiment, even with something as small and innocuous as a hat." I pointed to the cobalt blue trilby on the hat stand. "I doubt I'll be allowed to keep it for a week. I'll fight him, of course, but no matter how firm my resolve, somehow he always wins out in the end."

"That is the danger with associating with strong-willed, quick-witted men," Watson said. "If you aren't careful, you can find yourself positively bullied."

Watson was watching Holmes just as I had been watching Jeeves. I recalled some of the barbed words they had exchanged earlier. "I say, is everything on the up-and-up with you and Mr. Holmes? You two seem a bit pipped, vexed, cross, downright inimical."

Watson's brows raised in innocent surprise. "Not at all. When he's on a case he becomes extremely focused and doesn't pay much mind to anything not directly relating to it. That is all."

I was not for a moment taken in by his assiduously blank look, for I was used to Jeeves and one would have to be pretty good indeed at adopting the statue-like, unaffected-by-the-world look to beat out Jeeves in that arena. "No, that's not it at all. He's not simply ignoring you, he's downright shunning you. I've seen this sort of thing before with Cousin Angela and my friend Tuppy. Angela and Tuppy are engaged, you understand. That is, they've been engaged, on and off, for ages now. The 'offs' happen when one of them, usually Tuppy, says something thoughtless and the other, usually Angela, takes it poorly and says something cutting in return. Before you know it each refuses to speak to the other, and then Jeeves and I have to go and set things right between them, after which they go right back to being happily affianced. You didn't say that Holmes's hat makes him look like a Manchester Terrier, did you? That's the sort of thing Tuppy says that gets him into trouble with Angela."

Watson was struck mute for a few seconds, moustache twitching under the hand that he placed over his mouth and his eyes creased with merriment. His delighted astonishment must have been provoked by the shock that I'd seen so clearly to the heart of the situation, for such is the keen insight I possess. It took him many seconds to gather his wits. He cleared his throat. "No. No, it was nothing like that."

"Well then, tell me all. I've a knack for sorting out rummy problems. My friends come to me for help all the time. Although in truth they usually ask for Jeeves," I frowned. "But in the end my assistance has always proved invaluable."

"Thank you for the offer, but it's really not necessary."

"I insist." My general air of shrewdness and sagacity beyond my years must have swayed him, for after a moment's pause and a thoughtful sigh, he spoke.

"Holmes is a…"

He seemed at a loss for words, so I jumped in with both feet to give him a push just as Jeeves so often does for me when I find that the right term has proved elusive. "A gentleman? A detective? An odd bird?"

"…A demanding person. He is demanding both of others and himself. He is a man who despises error as much as he despises injustice. Holmes would not have been so foolish as to put anything in writing. Holmes would never blithely entrust his reputation and life on the false security of vaults and locks. I committed a grave error; I failed to live up to his expectations." Bowing his head and letting his eyes follow the pattern on the rug, Watson murmured as much to that rug as to me. "I suspect I must disappoint him quite a lot, if he desires me to live up to the sort of perfection he tries to demand of himself."

The words struck a chord, a veritable harmonic polyphony, inside me. Through the dining room door, I could see Jeeves seated at the table across from Mr. Holmes. His sleek dark hair and chiselled jaw brought to mind both the image of a dashing hero and a debonair man-about-town, and his facility of thought would give any old, dusty philosopher-a Plato or a Hobbes-a run for his money. He was, as I have said many a time, a paragon among men, as near perfect as any earthly being could be. Yet for some reason, although he surely could have been a butler at a ducal manor or an Oxford don or even Prime Minister if he wanted to, Jeeves was still here.

"Jeeves is still here," I said to myself.

"I beg your pardon?" Watson asked.

"Jeeves is still here," I repeated. From the expression on Watson's face, I deduced that this had not alleviated his confusion, so I added, "Jeeves is a bit like Holmes, you see. He's a chap around whom all others must pale in comparison. Whereas I, although not without some small bit of intellect-I did win the Scripture Knowledge prize as a schoolboy after all-am no more than a plodding oaf, a dunce, an idiot when compared to Jeeves. Despite this, he remains in my service even though there are many gentlemen who, seeing what a remarkable valet he is, have tried to lure him away. Granted, Jeeves and I have hit a few rough patches now and again, the most dire being that business with the banjolele, and there have been a few acrimonious moments involving ties, hats, dress jackets, waistcoats, shirts, and other bits and bobs of apparel, but through it all he remains steadfast." I frowned as I remembered. "Except for the banjolele incident. He abandoned me for Chuffy Chuffnell for a full week then. It was the worst week of my life and it was only luck and the house fire that brought him back. And then there was the moustache episode. I don't imagine Mr. Holmes ever denounced you over your moustache."

Recalling the banjolele incident made me suddenly less sure of myself and Jeeves's continued place at my side. What had begun as speech to raise the spirits, by the end left me feeling less cheered than before. Watson gave me an avuncular pat on the shoulder, and the quirk of a smile on his face indicated that at least _his_ spirits had been raised, so the exercise was not a complete hash.

At last, Jeeves and Holmes returned to the sitting room. Holmes immediately ducked down behind the sofa to crawl around the floor back there. I craned my neck to see what he was up to but couldn't make heads or tails out of his actions. Watson appeared as perplexed as I, though with an air of resignation like a man who's so used to confusion that it has ceased to be a novelty. Jeeves, meanwhile, stood before me in the stuffed-frog way he does when he is preparing to announce that dinner is served or a visitor is at the door.

"I have informed Mr. Holmes of the most effective locations of concealment. He proposes that we arrange an ambush here, if it is agreeable to you, sir."

"Of course, an ambush!" I turned in my seat and, resting my hands on the back of the sofa, leaned far over it to observe Holmes. "You must be looking for the best place to see the door. It's just like this one bit in _Murder in the Light_ where private eye Eddie Flint gets the drop on Al Giordano." I glanced at Jeeves with a grin on my face.

Jeeves was less excited about the whole thing than I. Not that he wore anything so commonplace as a frown, but his face was altogether too expressionless and his mouth too straight for him to be anything but displeased. "Might I remind you of the very real dangers present in this proposed course of action?"

"You know what I say to that, Jeeves? I say 'Pshaw'. Great-great-great-however-many-times-great grandfather Wooster did not fight at Agincourt so that his descendant could turn tail when danger reared its head. No, we will stand our ground, boldly meet our foe, and vanquish the vile villain."

Rather than being uplifted by my, if I may say so, rather stirring speech, Jeeves seemed more disapproving than ever. His brows drew down over his eyes and a dark cast shadowed his mien. "As a strategy, pure bravery has been proved by recent world events to be unsuccessful."

It was a moment or two before his meaning sunk in, but when it did my jaw dropped. "Well, I say, Jeeves, I say," I sputtered. "My sitting room is hardly Ypres."

"My point remains; if you are going to insist on this endeavour it would behove you, sir, to be exceedingly cautious."

"Yes, yes, of course," I replied airily.

"Do you own a gun, Mr. Wooster?" Holmes interrupted, popping up from behind the sofa. I nearly fell off in surprise.

"A gun? Goodness me, no. I'm not much of hunting fellow. All that tromping about the fields struck me as quite a bit of work for dashed little benefit. My Aunt Dahlia, on the other hand, she has rifles and guns of all sorts, a whole room full of them, remnants from her Quorn and Pytchley days."

"Pity. When Roberson comes, he will in all likelihood engage you in conversation, hoping that he can retrieve the packet from you through guile. When he does, respond casually, but do not approach him nor let him approach you. Your life may depend on it. When he asks about the packet, tell him that you have it in the kitchen and will fetch it for him. You and Jeeves will then depart, taking yourselves out of immediate danger and leaving the task of apprehending him to Watson and me. Do you understand?"

"It all seems simple enough," I replied. "I let the chap in, take him off his guard with my good-natured charm, then biff off while you finish the job."

Holmes merely sighed, but Watson said, "Yes, that's just fine."

Then an objection sprang to my mind. "Wait! What do I say to him?"

"Whatever you would normally say in this sort of situation," Holmes said.

"But I've never been in this sort of situation before. I don't have criminals popping over after supper every day. Well, except for old Barmy on occasion, but he's not really a criminal. That whole affair with the Venus statuette and the banana was just a misunderstanding. You see, he-"

"Greet him as you would any gentleman stranger who arrived at your door. You lost a packet of your own, yes?"

"Yes, my novel. And I'm bally upset over the loss. I'm supposed to-"

"Ask him about your packet. He will expect you to be concerned about it."

"Yes, all right, if you-"

"Don't, under any circumstances, mention Watson or me or look in the direction we'll be hiding."

"Right, I-"

"If he becomes wary, try to extricate yourself from the room immediately but without arousing his doubts further."

"I-"

"Don't let him take you off guard. He's as changeable as wind and water."

My head was dizzy with all these instructions. "I'm not sure I can do this."

"If you don't talk to him, he'll be suspicious." Holmes gazed at me with an assessing eye. "Perhaps Jeeves should be the one to lead him into our trap."

"No, I gave you my word as a Wooster that I would carry through, and I mean to do it." Holmes said nothing, but the weight of his obvious disapprobation was heavy. Keen to prove my worth, I said, "I'm sure if I could practice, you know, a rehearsal or two, I'd be good to go."

"A rehearsal," Holmes intoned flatly.

"Yes. Like a play."

"It's worth a try," Watson said. "Holmes, would you?"

"If I must," he replied. He then slithered to the front door and stood in the doorway. "Imagine that I am Roberson, and Jeeves has just admitted me into your home."

"Oh, right, well…" I cleared my throat. "What-ho, old chap."

Holmes's face cracked into a sudden and blinding smile. It was the most unnerving thing I'd ever seen. On any other man it would be bright and cheery, but it was so out of place on Holmes's pale, narrow face that it looked more like the grin of a carnival mask. "Mr. Wooster, so glad you're in. It seems I accidentally walked off with your packet when we bumped into each other earlier." Even his voice was different, deeper, huskier, with the faintest trace of a Cornish accent.

I was still put off by that unexpected smile. The longer it stayed there, the more it seemed to melt into his face, seeping into the cracks, as it were, until it seemed like an utterly natural expression and the mask became flesh. "I…er…yes. That is, yes, my packet. I'm quite keen to get it back you know. It's very important. It's this novel, you see, and, well, it's not much, but I did put a lot of effort into it, you know, and-"

"And I believe you have a packet of mine."

"Yes, it's…where is it?" I muttered that last bit to Jeeves. He flicked his eyes towards the kitchen in response. "Yes, that's right, the kitchen. It's in the kitchen. Let me go fetch it for you." Actions followed speech and I made my way kitchenwards. Stopping at the end of the sitting room I asked, "Is that all right?"

"Well, Roberson may think you're a half-wit, but then-"

"Holmes!" Watson scolded. "That's uncalled for even from you."

"It's all right," I assured Watson. "Aunt Dahlia calls me 'young blot' and 'fathead' and 'nincompoop' all the time, and she actually likes me. You should hear what Aunt Agatha calls me." Despite my reassurances, I was touched by Watson's concern. Jeeves, too, gave Watson a quietly grateful look before facing Holmes with all the censure he would give a lime green spotted tie.

Seeing that he was besieged on all sides, some of the biting fire in Holmes's eyes cooled as his thoughts turned reflective. "Yes," Holmes said at last. "Yes, you'll do all right, Mr. Wooster." Then Holmes turned away from me, giving the others directions. "Watson, you've better aim than I. Your position will be behind the sideboard where you'll have a good shot at him if it comes to that. If Roberson so much as twitches his fingers, you know what to do."

Watson nodded once as Holmes continued, "Jeeves, once you've admitted Roberson, stay close to Mr. Wooster. And Mr. Wooster," I perked up when I heard my name. "Don't dawdle with Roberson. Let him in then get out of the way."

All this business struck me as rather complicated, and I wondered if it wouldn't be easier to simply let the police deal with it. "I say, wouldn't it be easier just to call the police and let them pick him up?"

"As far as the official force is concerned, he's a reformed and law-abiding penitent whose last crime was committed twenty years ago," Holmes replied. "This plan is far from ideal��"too many uncontrollable variables." He looked at Jeeves and me and a prick of offence scratched my heart as his meaning became clear. I didn't much like the idea of being reduced to an "uncontrollable variable" and Jeeves was as steadfast as they come. But Holmes must not have noticed, for he continued, "But I must work with the tools before me, however inadequate. We either confront Roberson now, on our own terms, or else he'll simply track you down later."

The next few hours passed in punctuations of awkward conversation. A bit after tea, Jeeves and Holmes struck up an exchange about a chap called Hume who appeared to have a lot to do with science or history. I couldn't be sure which. Watson occasionally interjected here and there, but as for me, I confess that before long I found myself too self-conscious to speak up��"a thing that has never happened to me before. It was as if I'd stumbled into the midst of two demiurges who were gabbing about the creation of reality. It was not the sort of thing you wanted to interrupt.

"The relationship between natural law and moral law is, of course, a concern to any man who would study ethics," Holmes said. "If what is natural is not necessarily moral��"in other words, if there is no necessary correlation between the two��"then it would also follow that what is unnatural is not necessarily immoral."

"I quite agree." Jeeves said. "Whereas the laws of nature can be empirically observed and measured and therefore defined according to scientific principles, morality defies quantitative measurement and simple categorization." Jeeves continued. "Have you perused George Moore's _Principia Ethica_? He presents a similar, though distinct view, and uses the term 'naturalistic fallacy' to describe the logical incohesion of the presumption that moral properties such as 'good' can be defined using natural properties such as 'pleasure'. Although pleasure may be good, goodness cannot be defined as pleasure."

I leaned over to Watson and whispered, so as not to interrupt. "I don't suppose you know what they're on about?"

"Ethical non-naturalism, I think. I confess they're becoming a bit difficult to follow at times."

"Ah. Yes. Yes, a bit." I resumed my silent vigil. Before long, their words flowed together like bits of chocolate all melted into a gooey lump on a hot day. I watched Jeeves's bright and animated eyes and let the sound of his smooth voice wash over me.

It was well past nine o'clock before events started picking up again. At the first rap on the door, we all quickly assumed our assigned positions: Watson and Holmes hidden, me standing well out of the way near the dining room, and Jeeves to the front door to let the fellow in.

"Mr. Marcus Roberson here to see you, sir." Jeeves presented me with the man's card.

"How do you do, Mr. Wooster?"

He was not at all what I expected. I had hoped for some Moriarty-esque nemesis, with a high, domed head and flat, snake-like eyes. Instead, I saw a well-dressed gentleman with a weathered, worldly sort of face and friendly smile. I hadn't had a good look at him before, being face-down on the pavement during much of our first encounter, and I was surprised to find that he looked like the sort of man with whom I could imagine myself playing a cordial round or two of cards at one of the more fashionable London clubs.

"How do you do, Mr. Roberson?" I instinctively stepped forward to shake his outstretched hand.

"I am terribly sorry about my lack of manners this morning," he said, clapping me on the shoulder. "Knocking you over like that and then not even sparing a moment to see if you were all right."

"Oh, think nothing of it. I am, as you see, perfectly recovered from the ordeal."

Roberson laughed. "Pity our parcels didn't fare so well. It seems that I ended up with yours and you walked off with mine."

"Yes, there is that."

"I should like my parcel back." Something about his face shifted; his genial smile, though he had not twitched a muscle, seemed to turn into a leer. My blood chilled at the sight and my brain froze.

"Your parcel?"

"Parcel. The one I dropped. The one you carried home with you."

"Oh, yes, yes of course, _that_ parcel," I laughed nervously. I couldn't think of what to say. All the instructions given to me had been sucked out of my head by this man's fierce stare. "The parcel…"

In the next second, his sinister aspect vanished entirely and he was all bonhomie again and I was left wondering if the whole thing was just my imagination running away with me. "It's a collection of some of my grandmother's old letters, you see. I have a friend at _The Daily Mail_ who's writing up a little article about reminiscences of the last century. I was just going to throw the damned things away but he thought they might help him write his piece. He'd be terribly disappointed if I don't get them to him by his deadline. He's-"

Things all happened so quickly then that I can't be sure that I have all the details, but I'll try my best to relate each event in order. We were all getting along in a gentlemanly fashion, and I had high hopes that once the trap was sprung, Roberson would be an agreeable chap and say, "Well, dash it all, you got me fair and square, so I may as well give myself up." Needless to say, nothing of the sort occurred. On the contrary, in mid-sentence and for no reason I could surmise, he drew a gun. I say he drew it, because I assume he must have. I myself didn't see it despite the fact that I was looking right at him. One second his hands were empty, the next he had a revolver raised, cocked, and aimed at me, ready to fire.

Watson rose from his hiding place then, his own service revolver out. Roberson shifted his aim to meet this new threat and a tremendous bang resounded through the apartment.

"John!" Holmes cried out, vaulting over the chesterfield.

I looked around in confusion. Jeeves was grappling with Roberson, grasping the wrist attached to the hand that wielded the gun, and pushing with all his might to keep it directed safely up and to the side and not pointed at him or any other person. Without a moment's thought or hesitation, I leapt into the fray to save Jeeves from his precarious position.

There was a tangle of limbs and the next thing I knew, Roberson was holding me in front of himself, one arm across my throat in a chokingly tight grip, and the other tucked behind my back. The hard, round barrel of his revolver pressed against my ribs.

"Don't move or he dies," Roberson hissed.

Jeeves froze, teeth clenched and eyes dark with some indefinable emotion. Holmes, gun out and aimed in my direction, was hovering over Watson, who was crumpled on the ground with blood washing over the side of his face. All of us were prisoners in this dreadful tableau until Roberson said otherwise.

"Drop the gun, Mr. Holmes. You wouldn't want to accidentally shoot Mr. Wooster, now would you?"

For a moment, I thought that he would refuse and that I would end up in the very unfortunate position of being caught between two armed and angry men, but at last, Holmes tossed his revolver to the ground.

"You," Roberson cocked his head at Jeeves, who had shifted his weight forward, "Not another step closer, you hear me? Or I will kill him." He dug the gun deeper into my side and I let out a gasp. Jeeves, his eyes locked on mine, said nothing but did not move further.

"Jeeves," I whimpered.

"Don't be afraid, sir," Jeeves murmured to me.

"Afraid? Who's afraid?" I said, boldly, realizing from the quaver in my voice that I was shaking. Roberson's arm tightened against my throat and I was drawn backwards towards the door. Roberson spoke as we retreated.

"If the police come, tell them that the sound the neighbours heard must have been the popping of a champagne cork," he sneered. "If you tell the police anything, if they get involved in any way, I shall know, and I shall put a bullet in Mr. Wooster's diminutive brain. If you behave, you might be able to get Mr. Wooster back alive. I'll contact you in two hours to let you know how."

With those final words, Roberson opened the door and we backed into the hallway. The door closed in front of me, leaving us on one side and Jeeves and the rest on the other. My last vision was of Jeeves, his chiselled jaw set in fierce determination, and it burned itself into my mind.


	4. Missing Mr. Wooster

_From the pen of Dr. John H. Watson: In which the villain makes his demands._

Chapter 4: Missing Mr. Wooster

The sound of Roberson's voice greeting Mr. Wooster chilled me down to my bones. I had forgotten how pleasant and good-natured a façade he could create. Hearing those friendly tones and knowing the depravity of the man speaking made my stomach roil. Holmes was always fond of reminding me that the most charming and well-mannered exterior could mask the most ruthless heart, and Roberson embodied the truth of that adage as well as anyone I had ever met.

When Mr. Wooster stepped forward, permitting Roberson to shake his hand, my breath stopped, foreboding tightening my lungs. I began to wonder whether I should have tried to dissuade Mr. Wooster from going along with Holmes's scheme. Despite Mr. Wooster's good intentions, he did not seem to realize the danger in which he had placed himself by allowing Roberson get so close. Mr. Wooster was a kind-hearted and amiable young man, but he gave the impression of one whose head was so far up in the clouds that he had forgotten that the earth, with all its miseries and despair, existed at all. In other circumstances, Mr. Wooster's innocence would be charming, a delightful contrast to the morbid outlook with which I am usually assaulted in my day to day life as Holmes's friend and companion. This very quality, however, left Mr. Wooster unable, despite all Holmes's warnings, to believe in his heart that a human being could contain the sort of evil Roberson possessed. I feared that in supporting Holmes, I might have led Mr. Wooster into terrible danger.

At first, Mr. Wooster played his part well, and the bonds around my chest loosened, but then the undercurrent of the conversation shifted. Mr. Wooster became jittery and Roberson's instincts-like those of a hunted wolf-immediately sensed a trap. With astounding speed, he drew his pistol.

Jeeves rushed at Roberson while I rose from my hiding place, bringing my revolver to bear. Roberson's shot went off just as Jeeves grabbed Roberson's wrist. A sharp sting nipped the side of my face, and my legs crumpled under me, my ears ringing and vision dark around the edges. When my sight cleared, Holmes was kneeling at my side, one hand fluttering by my face as if afraid to touch.

"John," he whispered.

I nodded and waved my hand weakly in reassurance, still too stunned to do more. "Roberson," I said. It may have been a whisper or a shout for all I could tell through the tinnitus. I could not let Holmes's concern for me distract him while Roberson was in the room or Holmes would be the next to receive a bullet. Pivoting up into a crouch, he raised his pistol at Roberson but could not fire, for his shot was blocked. Roberson held Mr. Wooster tight in front of him, one arm choking his throat.

Holmes threw down his weapon, and my heart thrummed with such terror that I thought it would burst from my chest. Roberson had made no disguise of his murderous intentions regarding Holmes, and I feared lest it all end here, with Holmes on the floor, unarmed, and I unable to do anything to stop it.

Roberson had something else planned, however, some vile plot that was permeating his mind. Whatever it was that stayed his hand when Holmes was at his mercy, it was not compassion or uncertainty, or any other humane emotion, for Roberson had none. However grateful I was that Holmes's life was spared, I could not help but to wonder what more destructive retribution Roberson planned. With Mr. Wooster as his prisoner, Roberson left. A grim silence followed his departure.

Holmes, still kneeling, and tense with strain all throughout the exchange, wilted. He dropped to the ground and crawled the few feet to where I was laboriously pushing myself off the floor. Resting one hand on my back and another grasping my wrist, he helped me sit up. He looked carefully into my eyes, first the left then the right, then peered at the side of my head where the bullet grazed my skull, examining me for a possible fracture. His face was ashen, his smoke grey eyes wide with alarm. "Had the bullet been the merest fraction of an inch to the left…my God, John, I should never have put you in such danger."

Holmes drew his handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the blood on the side of my face. Jeeves helpfully carried over a glass of water into which Holmes dipped the cloth.

"It's all right Holmes," I said. "It's just a scratch, a graze. It dazed me, but I'm fine. We should be worrying about Mr. Wooster."

"You were shot; Mr. Wooster was not." Holmes retorted. "Now let me see-"

"Do I need to remind you which of us is a physician? As much as I respect your intellect, only one of us has been to medical school, and it was not you. If I say that I am fine, it means that in my professional, medical opinion, I am fine. Unlike you, I don't ignore potentially life-threatening conditions out of some mistaken belief in my own immortality."

I half-regretted the words almost as soon as they left my mouth. It was not often that Holmes revealed any sort of affection, and were I a more manipulative sort, I should have taken advantage of the opportunity that the mild but bloody wound gave me. Yet after days on the receiving end of Holmes's snarls and contempt, it was difficult to do anything but snarl back, even though my heart sank to see his expression close off once more and the light of concern fade from his eyes until they were nothing but a blank and stony wall.

He pushed himself away from me and stood, leaving me to regain my feet on my own, the glass of water and the handkerchief abandoned on the floor beside me. I picked them up and resumed the task of cleaning away the blood. Pacing up and down the room Holmes swore, "Damn it all! And damn Mr. Wooster for letting Roberson come too close."

"Are you suggesting that Mr. Wooster is solely responsible for his predicament, sir?" Jeeves asked frostily, righting a statuette that had been overturned sometime during the struggle.

"If he had obeyed my instructions, and kept out of the way, Roberson would not have been able to take him hostage."

"If he had obeyed your instructions, I would not have been close enough to Roberson to grab his wrist, and Dr. Watson would be dead."

"Roberson attacked because he noticed Mr. Wooster's unease. It was obtuse of me to trust a blithering dullard like Wooster to the task."

Jeeves stiffened. "Mr. Wooster only complied with your plan because you asked it of him."

"I neither solicited nor appreciated the ill luck that brought the packet here and resulted in Mr. Wooster's participation in my affairs. Now, thanks to his folly, Roberson has escaped and Mr. Wooster has very likely got himself killed."

"He will not be killed," Jeeves declaimed, his voice deep and resonant and each word clipped. Heretofore, he had only ever spoken in the most calm and measured tones, even in his quarrel with Holmes. The fervour that had streaked across his features faded back into his usual statuesque mask of propriety. His voice returned to its native mellow timbre. "If you will excuse me, gentlemen," he said, offering a short bow, and left the room.

After a long and uncomfortable silence, Holmes spoke. "This is useless."

"Holmes?"

"This squabbling. It solves nothing. I should be engaging my mind on more important things."

"Do you have a plan in mind?" A thread of worry drew my brows together. "You can't track Roberson."

"Could I not?"

"I do not doubt your ability," I clarified. "I merely point out that if Roberson discovered you, he would kill Mr. Wooster. It is not worth the risk."

"What do you suggest? Every moment Roberson is allowed to walk free is a travesty of justice."

"I suggest we wait, no matter how keenly you feel the injustice of it. You are the one who is always going on about needing all the facts before taking action. Well, we don't have all the facts, not until we know what Roberson's intentions are."

"Quite right," he muttered, rubbing his temple with his pale hand. "This case…I'm not thinking clearly."

Rarely had I heard him express such sentiments; even when the solution to a case eluded him, he preferred to frame the problem as a deficiency of information, or a failure of deduction, not a lack of rationality. His nerves must have been extraordinarily rattled to let such an admission slip. I laid a hand on his arm in an offer of support, of solidarity.

Yanking his arm away from my gentle touch, he spoke, pacing restlessly across the room. "The problem is a need for objectivity. This is the price I pay for allowing the harsh grit of emotion to settle into the fine, logical gears of the mind. I can see all problems clearly but my own, and Roberson is exploiting that weakness."

"Holmes," I trailed off, not knowing what to say to ease his mind. It was an old dilemma, the vacillation between his ideal of pure, emotionless logic and his all too human enthusiasm and need for affirmation and companionship, an audience for whom to perform. Although it was his humanity, his passion that made him the brilliant detective that he was, he could never see it as anything but a flaw in an otherwise perfect reasoning mechanism.

"Give me time, Watson," Holmes muttered. "Roberson must be dealt with; everything else must be banished from my mind." He flung himself into a chair, and, steepling his long fingers in front of his lips, closed his eyes.

I glanced longingly at the whisky on the sideboard, but under such precarious circumstances as these, I decided against it. Instead, I retrieved the handkerchief and water and found a mirror to complete the cleansing and inspection of my wound. The bleeding, though copious, as is the nature of head wounds, came from a cut little longer than an inch, just above my ear. Once the last of the blood was wiped away, it was barely visible. The dizziness and tinnitus, too, were fading, putting to rest my fears of a slight concussion from my fall. For so near a brush with death, I suffered no more than a rattled mind and a bit of bleeding.

"One thing weighing on my thoughts is why Roberson didn't take the package with him," Holmes said without preamble. "It is unlike him to neglect to exploit every advantage at his disposal." His eyes flashed open and he rushed across the room, the stillness of his contemplation giving way to wild energy in the space of a breath. He retrieved the parcel from where he had stashed it and within seconds broke the cord and unwrapped it, revealing the crisp, white pages within. I turned away, afraid to witness his reaction when he read the words I had dared to commit to paper. "Now, let us see what exactly Roberson came to retrieve."

No sound but the shuffling of paper was heard while I let my eyes trace the thin and delicate networks of cracks on the glaze of a vase containing a single red rosebud. I expected ridicule, or distain, or a new round of recriminations, but none came. I looked up at Holmes then, and saw to my surprise a strange, bitter smile twisting his face.

"Holmes?" I asked, hoping to break him out of whatever odd mood had taken hold of him.

"It was a ruse. He left it behind because he didn't need it." He thrust the papers at me. I glanced at the top page.

The parcel was composed of leaves torn from copies of my published stories. At first, I assumed that the selection was random, but after further examination, I noted a pattern. Each page contained an episode wherein I allowed a private detail or a hint of my deeper fascination with Holmes to slip. There were scenes from our early acquaintance and my attempts to study Holmes in a methodical, systematic way, going so far as to record what I later realised was a wholly inadequate list of attributes; the account of his return from the 'dead' and the concern he showed at my faint; another from the Milverton case, when Holmes and I were trapped behind a curtain, fearful of discovery; and, at the very end, the narrative of that terrible time when I thought I had lost him at Reichenbach Falls.

I was at a loss for words. "This…this is-"

"This is mockery," Holmes ground out from teeth bared in a snarl. "The letter he sent to Sussex, the threat, nothing was real. It was all a ploy, a trick, a trap, and I would have walked blindly into it had Mr. Wooster not inadvertently disrupted Roberson's plan by taking a walk to the post office this morning."

"Why come back for the papers if they were merely meant to be bait?"

"If he does not have the real papers in his possession, then his accusations were mere guesses and his letter to me was a bluff, and we fell for it, thus confirming his suspicions. If he _does_ possess the real papers…" Holmes trailed off in thought. "If he does possess them, but did not intend to mail them to the press as he threatened, then the letter was his method of luring us to London, and presumably into an ambush.

Holmes prowled the room, expounding on his hypothesis. "He would return for the decoy because could not know just how close on his trail we were or how readily we would find Mr. Wooster and the lost packet. He wouldn't want us to see the contents before he was ready to spring his trap, because he knew it would put us on guard. His collision with Mr. Wooster threw his plans out of alignment and he was trying to salvage them. If that is the case, then it is the one ray of light in this otherwise dismal situation, that Roberson's strategy has been as sidetracked as ours. I wonder where he would have waylaid us?" he mused. "Surely not the post office, it's too public." He wandered lost in thought.

"What does he intend now?" I said, bringing Holmes's mind back to our current predicament. The idea that Roberson had tricked Holmes, that Holmes _could_ be tricked, horrified me. He had, by his own admittance, been bested a few times before, but those instances were so few and far between that they seemed unreal aberrations. Moreover, those foes, unlike Roberson, wished merely to evade capture, and were a threat only to Holmes's pride.

"I don't know what his plans are. I can't deduce them." Holmes's tone was flat. "I know only his goal: my ruination. I cannot say what steps he will take to ensure it, especially now that his first salvo has gone awry."

"Then what are we going to do?"

Holmes snatched the papers out of my hand, flung them into the fireplace and scrambled for a match. After a few angry strikes, the match lit and it, too, was tossed on the grate, setting alight the pages that had scattered within. The flames reflected in the deep hollows of Holmes's eyes like twin sparks cast forth from hell.

"We're going to find Roberson and defeat him."

Holmes fell into deep contemplation, while I remained silent so as not to disturb him. Some minutes later, the bell rang and Holmes fixed the door with a vexed glare. I pondered the etiquette of answering a door not one's own, but Jeeves glided into the room as cool and professional as ever to inquire who was at the door.

"The police, gentlemen," he said, admitting a pair of blue-suited policemen. "Constable Davidson and Constable Archer."

"Right. So which one of you is Mr. Wooster?" Davidson asked. He was a tall, broad man with a flaming red beard. Were his bobby helmet to be replaced with a horned one, he would pass for a Viking raider out of a children's picture book.

"Ah, he is-" I paused.

"He is not available at the present time," Jeeves replied.

The constable's eyes narrowed in suspicion and his red beard bristled. "Hm. I don't suppose he'll be back soon, will he?"

"I should not expect so, Constable."

"The trouble is, you see, that we got told that a shot was heard, a shot coming from Mr. Wooster's flat."

"A shot, sir?" Jeeves blinked in a perfect imitation of bafflement. "There have been no shots here."

"Yes, a shot." He pointed at us. "And who are these men?"

"Guests of Mr. Wooster."

"Guests here while Mr. Wooster isn't? That's irregular, isn't it?"

"Mr. Wooster frequently opens his property to his friends and associates."

"See here, is that blood on your collar, sir?" Constable Davidson pointed at me. "And spots there on the floor?"

"Blood?" I glanced towards my shoulder, although without a mirror it would be impossible to see my own collar, and then to the red spatter on the rug. "Yes, but it's my own," I assured them.

"My clumsy friend cut himself," Holmes explained, smiling good-naturedly. "In a bit of high spirits, I tossed him a bottle opener, but he bungled the catch. The point left a nasty scratch. It bled like the dickens, but isn't much to look at. Show them," he commanded. I turned my head and pointed out the thin gash.

"Hm. Shots heard, strange gentlemen in the house, blood on the floor, the master missing," Constable Davidson puffed himself up, his broad shoulders nearly touching the sides of the doorframe. "We're going to have to take a look around."

Holmes scoffed. Jeeves ignored it and said, "If you believe a search would aid your investigation, I am certain that Mr. Wooster would not object. I will, of course, assist you however you wish."

"All right then, let's start with the bedroom and any wardrobes big enough to hide a body."

Once Jeeves had led them away I leaned over the arm of the chair in which Holmes sat to whisper in his ear. "Holmes," I said. "I have a revolver sitting in my pocket and two policemen are searching the house."

"Correct."

"If they take it into their heads to search us, too, it could cause a bit of a problem."

Holmes held out his hand. "Give it to me, then."

"What are you going to do with it?"

"Just hand it over, quickly, before they return."

I obeyed, as I always obey Holmes, baffled but without hesitation. He took it and his own pistol and stuffed them under the chair cushion on which he sat.

"You must be joking," I said, horrified by how cavalierly Holmes was treating the situation.

"Shh!" he hissed as the policemen returned with Jeeves trailing behind them.

They began searching the sitting room while Holmes looked on, leaning back in his chair calm and unperturbed. Behind the settee, in the cabinet, and under the piano, all received a quick eye.

"No luck, I take it?" Holmes asked.

Constable Archer, a wiry, dark man, spoke for the first time. "We're not done yet. Plenty of places left to look."

"Yes, of course," Holmes said. "Diligence is the virtue on which a good investigation sits." He took out a cigarette and lit it, settling comfortably on the chair in which the revolvers were hidden. For my part, I was torn between bursting into hysterical laugher and throttling him.

Constable Davidson glared at Holmes's flippant tone. "What's behind this door, then?" he asked Jeeves.

"That would be the dining room, Constable."

Again, the police left the room with Jeeves, and again I found myself muttering frantically in Holmes's ear. "Are you mad? You're all but telling them where to look. 'On which a good investigation sits' indeed," I said with disgust.

"Calm yourself, Watson. I've seen many men of this sort conduct many so-called 'investigations'. We've nothing to fear." He flicked a bit of ash on the floor. I mused that it was a fortuitous thing that Jeeves was not around to witness such disrespect done to the clean rug.

The constables searched the rest of the apartment in the time it took Holmes to finish his cigarette. When they returned to the sitting room, Holmes greeted them by saying, "I've always said that flawed perception is the seat of nescience. Perhaps the neighbours heard incorrectly."

"We're not through here. Stand up, stand up now!" Constable Davidson ordered his colleague to search Holmes's person.

Holmes flinched as the constable roughly patted him down. Holmes detested strangers' touches, especially those he did not initiate and could not control. Constable Davidson fired off questions while the search progressed.

"Are you a Communist?"

"No."

"A Fascist?"

"No."

"An anarchist?"

"No, although there are times when the actions of the government make me wish I were."

"Don't try to be funny," Constable Davidson scowled.

"I wouldn't dream of it."

"Are you an addict?" the constable continued.

Holmes didn't blink. "No."

"Gambler?"

"No." Holmes rolled his eyes. "If you're hoping to find some evidence that my friend and I are here involved in some illicit affair, I'm afraid you'll be disappointed."

"Hmph."

Then they turned their attention to me. Compared to Holmes's barbed comments, saturnine features, and bohemian appearance, however, I appeared no more dangerous than someone's quiet and retiring grandfather, so their search was brisk and questions few.

"You see? No pistols, no body, no shots." Holmes smiled.

"What about the blood?"

"A man who had been shot would surely bleed more than that little trickle," Holmes replied, nodded towards the scant droplets that stained the floor. "As I said, the blood was from a clumsy accident."

Constable Davidson frowned, presumably pondering what to say when one was called out in the middle of the night to investigate an alleged shooting and could find neither anything to substantiate it, nor a plausible alternative explanation.

Jeeves offered a rationalization of his own. "Perhaps the sound the neighbours heard was the explosion of an automobile backfiring. To the unobservant, the noise can resemble that of a pistol."

"Yes, that's true," Constable Davidson said, clinging gratefully to the simple excuse offered. "An auto backfiring."

"If you are satisfied with your search, gentlemen, perhaps I can interest you in a drink before you depart?" Jeeves asked.

Constable Archer looked speculatively at his colleague, but Constable Davidson said, "Thank you kindly, but we're on duty."

"Of course." Jeeves showed them to the door. "Good night to you, gentlemen." Once they were gone, I let out an explosive sigh of relief that I hadn't known I was holding in.

"Thank God for the incompetence of the common police constable!" Holmes exclaimed. "There's a half inch bullet hole in the far wall, in the shadow of the curtain, which a man with any real powers of observation could not have overlooked. I do hope that were I to be murdered I would have someone with a shred of skill conducting the investigation. What a pity it would be to have to leave my retribution in the hands of bunglers like those." He retrieved our pistols from their hiding place and passed mine back to me.

"If you were to be murdered, Holmes, I promise that I would properly avenge you."

He snorted in reply, whether in amusement or scorn, I chose not to contemplate.

"Under the circumstances," I said, "You shouldn't complain. If they had been more perceptive we would have had a devil of a time trying to explain ourselves."

"True. I suppose even idiocy is occasionally useful."

"Although I suppose if we had been unlucky, we could have simply told them who you are. With your reputation-"

"With my reputation, the police would become more convinced than ever that a crime has, in fact, been committed, and that I am investigating it. They would then be insistent on joining the investigation whether I wished it of them or not. That would be a disaster. No, the police must not know that we are in London. Not yet."

Conversation drifted away, Holmes curled up in the chair, staring off into who knew what vistas of the mind. Jeeves, meanwhile, prowled the apartment, busying himself with inconsequential tasks, dusting, sorting, cleaning. When I noticed that he had dusted a certain blue vase three times, I realized that he was not merely attending to his duties, but desperately keeping himself busy while we waited for Roberson to contact us. Finally, at half-past eleven, the telephone rang. Jeeves swiftly crossed the room and answered it.

"Mr. Wooster's residence," he said. How he kept his tone so even in the midst of such calamity was a marvel. There was a pause, and a faint touch of a distasteful sneer tilted Jeeves's mouth. By that small gesture, I knew who the caller was. A moment later, Jeeves spoke again, "Yes, he is," and held the receiver out to Holmes.

Holmes snatched the telephone. He did not wait for the caller to identify himself. If I could deduce his identity, Holmes surely could. "Roberson," he spat.

I watched Holmes's face intently as Roberson spoke on the other line. The muscles of his jaw rippled as he clenched his teeth. "Enough games, Roberson, what do you want?" There was a pause. "I've no intentions of parleying with you. Simply name your terms and be done with it."

Blood drained from Holmes's already pale face, leaving him as ghastly white as a corpse. His grey eyes blazed like a wrathful spirit. "And if I refuse?"

Hoping to become privy to Roberson's demands, I drew closer, but in vain. All I could hear was Holmes's replies. "What about the papers?" he asked.

Whatever Roberson said, it wasn't good. Holmes's lips tightened into a grim line. "How do I know you'll release him if I do as you say?"

I wondered what Roberson could possibly offer in reply to that question, and whether Holmes would accept any answer Roberson gave. Holmes did not press the point, however, either satisfied by Roberson response or, more likely, recognizing the futility. When next he spoke, it was with despondency. "It will take time."

There was a long silence, and Holmes's expression remained static and empty throughout. His air of grim desolation was slowly paved over by a thick façade of stoic detachment as Roberson spoke.

"Yes," he said at last, in the chill and heartless voice of an automaton. Moments later he hung the telephone receiver back on the stand and clenched his hand into a tight fist.


	5. Games

_From the pen of Bertram W. Wooster: In which Bertie comes to realize the gravity of his situation._

Chapter 5: Games

As soon as the door to the flat was shut, leaving us in the hallway on one side and Jeeves and the rest on the other, Roberson relaxed his grip on me and I was able draw a full breath for the first time in what felt like an age. His gun, however, was still a fearfully tactile presence against my ribs.

"Walk forward, slowly. If you try to run or call for help I shall shoot you."

"Is this really necessary? The whatsits with the gun, that is."

"I'm afraid it is, Mr. Wooster," he said, and the bally odd thing was that he almost did sound regretful. Then again, when I greeted him in my flat, he sounded genuinely friendly, too, and that didn't last five minutes before he started shooting people. Despite what Aunt Agatha and others may say, I am capable of learning from my mistakes, and I decided that whatever this Roberson chap said, no matter how earnest he might seem, I should take it with an ocean of salt, salt enough to rival the Great Salt Flats in saltiness.

With his gun hidden in his coat pocket, just like a Chicago gangster, he prodded me outside to a waiting cab. I considered trying to elicit the cabbie's help, babble out my tale of woe and hope that he was the sort of good egg who'd help his fellow man, but I recalled Roberson's threats re. shooting and decided it wasn't worth the risk.

We rode towards the river and ended our journey somewhere near the East End, or so it seemed to me from what little I could make out in the darkness. When we arrived at our destination, which was a shoddy-looking structure with splintering boards and peeling paint, Roberson shuffled me out of the cab and inside.

The interior had as little to recommend to it as the exterior. It was dark, on account of there being no electric lamps, only old-fashioned gas. The dim light was all for the better, since the combination of colours with which the owner had chosen to decorate-ruby red curtains and violet wallpaper-would have made Jeeves weep had he been there. A gaggle of ladies...well...females, at any rate, lolled about the foyer. One of these, a middle-aged woman, rose and sauntered in our direction. She was tall and thin, with black hair and a long face like a basset hound in makeup.

"Marcus, love, I thought you was going to be here hours ago," she said. She gave me the once-over. " 'ere's a pretty lad you've brought with you. Who is he?"

"He's no one of consequence, my dear."

I took affront at such dismissive words. "I say, I'm of great consequence to me!"

"Ooo, he talks even more posh than you do," the woman said with glee.

Roberson's grip on my arm squeezed painfully. "Leave it be, Ettie. He won't be with us for very long."

"Got something all planned out?"

Roberson smiled. "Of course. Not exactly as I'd originally intended, but it will do."

"Don't go getting too inventive now. We have a deal, and I don't want no surprises coming down on me."

"Don't fuss so." Roberson planted a kiss on her forehead. "I know what I'm doing. Did you prepare my rooms?"

"All aired out and fresh linen just like you asked."

"Thank you, my dear." Roberson tugged at my arm and we made our way up a rickety old staircase and into a suite of rooms. It was like entering an entirely different building. Well, almost. There was nothing one could do about the smell of mould, but olfactory considerations aside, this room could have been transplanted straight out of one of the nicer country cottages. The furniture was solid oak oiled to a golden shine, the oriental rug bright, and the decor tasteful if old-fashioned.

I was manoeuvred to a chair and, with a wordless wave of the gun, ordered to sit. One doesn't like to argue with a gun, so I obeyed post-haste. Roberson retrieved a coil of rope and secured my arms to those of the chair. I winced as he pulled it taut, the rope biting into my limbs and my fingers tingling. He seemed quite casual about the whole thing, as if this were something he did often and was therefore hardly worth his notice, like an old fisherman tying off a net. He chatted offhandedly as he worked.

"Ettie's a good girl. If you pay her." He grinned. "But she's quite willing to be a naughty girl if you pay her _well_."

I looked around, wondering to whom he was speaking. There didn't seem to be anyone else in the room, so using a bit of the old Wooster logic I determined that he was speaking to me. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to reply or not. I'd never learned the conversational etiquette for kidnapping before, although I don't doubt that there's a book for it, given that there's an etiquette book for every other occasion. I settled the debate on whether to reply or not to reply with an ingenious compromise. I made a non-verbal noise of interest, something like, "hum" or "huh," which I could pass off as a tickle in my throat if it turned out to be the incorrect response. It seemed to do the trick, for Roberson continued.

"We go back a long way, Ettie and I." Satisfied with the trussed up state of yours truly, he fetched himself a drink from the sidebar.

I looked on in longing. After the rummy day I'd had, a drink would have been nectar from heaven. "I don't suppose you'd consider offering me one?" I asked.

"Of course! Where are my manners?" He laughed and poured a second glass. Returning to me, he held the glass out to me. I reached to accept-or, I would have reached, had my arms not been inconveniently bound. I tugged again at the bindings, hoping that perhaps they'd be right nice chaps and let Bertram Wooster bally well have his much needed drink. Alas, they were disobliging. "Oh my, well, that _is_ a problem, isn't it." He laughed again and took the drink away, my yearning gaze following the amber liquid as it drew farther and farther from me, like a man stranded on a desert island watching a ship, his one hope at rescue, sailing into the distance beyond the horizon.

If Jeeves were here he'd hold the glass to my lips so that even immobilized, I'd not have to go without. Of course, if Jeeves were here, he'd probably find a way to save me so I'd not have to be immobilized and he'd not have to hold said glass to said lips, although I'd not object if he did anyway. I tried to imagine Jeeves offering me a drink in such a way, one hand behind my head, just at the base of my skull, the other carefully lifting the glass to my mouth, tilting slowly so I'd not spill a drop. The fancy was impossible to hold on to; like water cupped in one's bare hands, it slipped away. Jeeves was too prim and proper, too aloof to do such an intimate thing. Perhaps if I were sick, yes, if I were sick he might do it, although under those circumstances he would more likely be spoon feeding me soup than pouring whisky down my throat. There was no Jeeves around to help me, though, just Roberson, who was disinclined to do me any favours. Instead, he tossed back his drink and mine, and set the two glasses down on a brown-wrapped parcel.

"I say, is that my parcel?" I craned my neck to get a better view. "It is! Well, that's a bit of good news. I feared it was lost forever."

"Important, is it?"

"Oh yes, very," I assured him. "I was utterly distraught when I thought it was gone."

He raised his brows and gazed at the parcel more closely. "Well, if it's _important_," he said, moving the glasses away and picking at the knot in the twine. "We had best make sure it's intact."

I could have kicked myself for giving away any information; I could have, that is, if I weren't tied down to a chair. I tried to salvage the situation. "That's not necessary. It's not _really_ important. I mean, it is, but only in a personal manner." Realizing how the blackmailer might interpret this I hastened to add, "But not like Dr. Watson's documents, not personal as in private, just personal as in personal, not public. Well, they will be public eventually, at least that's the intent, but the public isn't terribly concerned about it and wouldn't give one whit if it vanished or was pinned to the church door for all to see. So you see it's not really anything so important that you have to open it."

As I finished speaking, Roberson undid the knot and tore off the wrapping. He sat down in a wing-backed chair and peered at the first page. "A novel?" He laughed. "This is your very important document?"

"I did clarify that it's just a trifle," I pointed out, feeling unaccountably perturbed by Roberson reading my novel before my very eyes. It was bad enough to watch Jeeves read my work, my stomach twisting itself up like those balloon animals as I examine every twitch of his face to ascertain his opinion. Jeeves, at least, lets me down gently when it's rubbish. I shuddered to think how a man who had no compunction about shooting actual people might treat a poor, innocent text. I scrunched my eyes shut and waited for the worst.

A few moments later, Roberson began to chuckle. Pages rustled and now and then another chortle would bubble up. I opened my eyes.

"This," he tapped the manuscript, "this is quite droll. The nitwit narrator is very amusing."

"Nitwit?" I huffed.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I thought he was supposed to be a caricature." Roberson returned to the book while I brooded.

Some minutes later, Roberson spoke again. "This Jeeves of yours is a clever chap, isn't he? That's useful to know."

Hearing Roberson mention Jeeves's name made my insides squirm. It couldn't have been more than an hour since I'd left his presence, but I missed him terribly nonetheless. I couldn't stop thinking about him, and hearing his name spoken aloud didn't help push him from my mind. I wished more than anything that he'd come shimmering through the door with one of his corking ideas for getting me out of this soupy mess.

Roberson continued. "You might want to be careful. You-I'm sorry, the narrator-appears unusually fixated on his valet. People might get the wrong impression."

"Wrong impression? I'm simply telling the world what a marvellous chap Jeeves is. It is no more than the unvarnished truth. There's nothing wrong with that."

"I imagine Dr. Watson began in much the same way, and you see where it got him."

"Well, Mr. Holmes, remarkable though he may be, has a few, shall we say, less than admirable quirks of the sort that may make certain people look askance, whereas my Jeeves is a paragon in every way possible. He has not a single bad habit or flaw in character, unless you count his overly conservative sartorial sensibility. There's not a thing I could divulge about him which could cause him shame."

"Mr. Holmes's 'quirks' as you call them are not the problem." He smiled and looked at me with a steady gaze. "Do you even know what Mr. Holmes's crime is?"

"Whatever crime he's committed, I'm sure it was in the pursuit of justice."

Roberson laughed again. I was starting to wish he were a gloomier sort of villain; his merriment was getting on my nerves. "Aren't you curious? Wouldn't you like to see the papers that got you into this situation?"

My brow crinkled in perplexity. I couldn't imagine why he would offer to show me such a thing. I could not deny that I was indeed curious. How could I fail to be, when these papers, whatever they were, had brought Sherlock Holmes himself out of retirement and onto my doorstep? They must have been filled with vividly ripe details, and that thought more than anything is what curbed my inquisitiveness. One did not nose into one's guest's business, not unless one's guest asked one-or one's valet-to do so. Those papers were personal, and as such I could not in good conscience let them be exposed to the Wooster eyes and continue to call myself a _preux chevalier_.

"Thank you, but no," I said, thinking that it wouldn't hurt to be polite, even, or perhaps especially to a man who was, as the Americans say, "packing heat."

"Oh come now, not even a peek?" He held up the papers, but I turned my face away.

"I'd rather not."

"I insist." His voice was sliding from breezy to hard.

I was getting dashed irritated by the whole thing and forgot my earlier decision to remain polite. "I said, 'no.' In other words, 'no', 'not at all', 'by no means' and 'nothing doing'. One would think you'd never heard the bloody word before."

His lips twisted into an ugly snarl and the creases around his mouth deepened. Fearing that I'd gone too far, I started offering up prayers and saying my goodbyes to the things I loved most in the world, starting with Jeeves and ending with Anatole's excellent recipe for _tartiflette_. My preparations to meet my maker were unnecessary, however. Roberson's face cleared, a slight upturn of his lips all the expression that remained.

"Very well then," he said mildly. "I trust you don't mind if _I_ read them, do you?"

Well, I couldn't deny him that, particularly seeing as he'd already read them at least once. "I have no objections."

"Good." He flipped through the pages and found the one he was looking for. He ostentatiously cleared his throat, and then began to read aloud in a resonant and perfectly enunciated voice, like a dramatic radio performer. My first instinct was to cover my ears, so as not to listen and thereby betray Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson's trust. Unfortunately, the restraints that bound my arms to the chair held fast and the only thing my struggles accomplished was to nearly tip me over.

With a touch of a sneer, Roberson recited:

_When he kissed me, I jumped back in shock and, slack-jawed with astonishment, stared at the unfamiliar sight of desire flitting across his familiar features. His eyes were dark, the pupil so dilated that only a thin ring of silver could be seen. This, combined with the trembling of his hands and shine of sweat upon his brow, told me all I needed to know. That poison he injected into his veins was responsible for this aberrant behaviour. _

"Holmes!" I cried. "How much did you take?"

"I am not mad, John," he replied, reading my thoughts upon my face. "On the contrary, the cocaine has given me the strength and clarity of mind to make manifest what was always there." He kissed me again, and this time I did not draw away.

It was not fair to Holmes, who, no matter what he said, was not in his right mind. It was certainly not fair to poor Mary, who waited so patiently at home. Holmes's force of will, however, was like iron, and as I had no real wish to deny him this, I acquiesced to his wishes.

Roberson interrupted the narrative to comment, "Drugs, perverted sex, corruption of a married man...Mr Holmes did have a wild and dissolute youth, didn't he." He resumed reading, the passage growing increasingly...personal, but I was no longer paying much attention, lost as I was in a tumult of thought.

With very little context to explain the whys and wherefores of how Holmes and Watson came to be in this concupiscent position it came across as a bit sordid and lascivious��"all body and no heart��"although having met them, I could not believe that lust was all there was to it. A burning heat suffused my cheeks as I listened and had I been able to look in a mirror, I'm sure I would have seen a face red as a cherry reflected back at me.

What shocked me most was that I was not, in fact, very shocked at all. Aside from my natural discomfiture at hearing such intimate details of another's private life, I did not feel the usual range of surprise and disbelief that a chap might be expected to feel when it is revealed to him that two upstanding gentlemen of his acquaintance are on chummier terms than society would tolerate. The spat I'd witnessed which, in a friendship, would signal a distinct cooling of relations was, between a couple, just standard procedure��"or so it seemed from the couples I'd observed. I suppose it stems from the fact that friends can be sent away when one knows that one is not at one's best, whereas, if one is devoted to another and so spends the greater part of one's life with that other, occasional frictions are bound to arise, whether about serious affairs, like a deadly indiscretion, or simple ones, like hats and ties.

With this new understanding, I felt a greater sense of camaraderie with Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson. They were no longer just a pair of legends or heroes, but two men who were not so different from me. This made the breach of privacy brought about by Roberson's reading all the more intolerable. Gathering my courage, I interrupted him. "I think I've heard enough of this," I said loudly. "I don't know what you're trying to accomplish, but I tell you it won't work. My friend Bingo has recited far more scandalous stories at the Drones Club bar. Of course, the stories he reads usually feature a female somewhere in them, or sometimes two, but nevertheless, you will not wear down my spirit with indecent innuendo. Whatever relationship exists between Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson, it's none of my business, or yours either. If you were any sort of true gentleman, you'd leave them alone instead of passing on gossip like a fishwife."

Roberson leapt from his chair, his face flushing with rage. "'True gentleman', is it?" he snarled, stalking towards me. "Like you, one of England's inbred? All haughtiness and indolence?"

Roberson puffed through his nose, in and out. The red faded from his face and the lines of fury curled back into smug tolerance. When he spoke again, his voice was mild. "I don't think you're taking your situation very seriously, Mr. Wooster. In your heart of hearts, you still think this is all a game, an exciting, fabulous game, much more thrilling than a petty matrimonial escapade. You think that any moment now your Jeeves will show up to rescue his Wooster-in-distress. You'll have a few laughs, and perhaps you'll even write the whole thing up as a novel." He raised the pages in his hand as if they were the hypothetical novel itself. "Mr. Wooster, let me assure you that by the time I'm finished, there will be a murder. Someone will die. It might even be you. Imagine it, your whole life extinguished. This is real, Mr. Wooster." He took up the gun and placed it against the side of my head. The barrel was cold against my temple and I shivered. "This pistol, these bullets, which are even now only inches from your brain, they're all real."

I wondered what would happen if I never left this room again. Would the police even find a body, or would I simply be one more corpse without a grave, buried in someone's back garden or dumped into the river? What would happen to Jeeves? He'd be all right, I was sure of it. A man like Jeeves wouldn't have a problem getting references, and would surely be swarmed by a bevy of prospective employers with Bertram Wooster out of the way. Still, I hoped he'd take a bonus before he left, as a gift from my posthumous self, and some books as well, maybe a trinket or two��"something personal, so he'll always remember me. Dash it all, he might as well take the whole kit-and-caboodle; he'd make better use of it than all the assorted family members who were the current beneficiaries of my will.

I wished that I could have told Jeeves how I felt before I died. It was quite tragic, like something out of Shakespeare: me dead, the love of my life never knowing how much I adored him. He would continue through his merry years, while I fed the worms. All the excuses I'd given to myself��"that Jeeves was my employee, that he would think I was exploiting him, that he would leave me, that he would stay but all would be ruined between us��"seemed like such paltry concerns next to that most terrible and immutable obstacle of all: death.

The circle of the gun's barrel drew away from my head. I opened my eyes. Until then, I hadn't been aware that I had closed them.

"No more games, Mr. Wooster." He dropped the gun on the table and picked up the telephone. "Now, tell me the telephone number for your flat. Once you have done that, do not say another word."

I nodded, staring at the gun that was still within his reach. I gave him the number, each digit recited in a flat, soft voice quite unlike my usual timbre. His words were still ringing in my ears and I felt not at all like myself. Roberson dialled and waited. In the stillness, I thought I heard Jeeves's murmur through the line, although it was more likely no more than wishful thinking on my part.

Roberson spoke. "Ah, this must be the inimitable Jeeves, paragon among paragons. I trust Mr. Holmes is still there."

I strained my ears, holding my breath and wishing I could stop the thumping of my heart so I could better hear Jeeves's much-missed voice. Then Roberson asked to speak to Holmes, and the opportunity was lost. They conversed back and forth, but I could only hear Roberson's side of the discussion. That made little sense without the context of the other, so I scarce paid any attention until my name was spoken.

"How far are you willing to go to save poor Mr. Wooster?" Roberson said. I took a great interest in Holmes's answer, as it intimately pertained to me, and cursed the fact that I couldn't hear it. Whatever Holmes said, it seemed to satisfy Roberson. He continued, "You know, during my time in prison, I read Dr. Watson's charming memoirs in _The Strand_ magazine. Fascinating reading. According to the doctor, you once remarked that you thought you would have made an efficient criminal. I offer you a chance to find out. I want the Jewels of Tarpeia, and you are going to steal them for me."

Stinging sweat dripped into my eye as I waited for the verdict with my heart in my throat and chest tight from the little gasps of air that fright forced in and out of me. The pause was an uncomfortably long one. When Roberson finally spoke again, his words did nothing to alleviate my worries.

"If you refuse, Mr. Wooster's brain matter will decorate the wall."

I swallowed hard. I was quite happy with my brain where it was. It may not have been much, but it was mine, and I was keen to keep it safely within the confines of my skull. Roberson was paying no attention to my distress. He smiled and stroked two fingers down the telephone shaft. "The packet? You can't procure two priceless possessions-a life and a reputation-with only one priceless relic. I'll keep the packet for now. Perhaps you'll have an opportunity to purchase it from me later."

Holmes must have said something about Roberson's general trustworthiness and lack thereof, for Roberson replied in an affronted tone, "I give you my word. A gentleman's word is his bond. For all my faults, I always keep my word."

Then there was talk of times and places for exchanging me for the jewels, all very calm, all very professional. To these two cold-blooded men, I was nothing more than a commodity to be bought and sold. As chilling as that sensation was, it did not raise the hairs on my head as much as Roberson's parting words did. It was not the words themselves, although they were alarming enough, but the nonchalance with which he spoke them that really turned my blood to ice.

"Mr. Holmes, I don't think I need to tell you that if you involve the police in any way, Mr. Wooster dies. If you attempt to find me, he dies. If you fail to get the jewels, he dies. If you think to trap me during the exchange, he dies. If you go against my wishes in any way-well, I think you get the point. Good night, Mr. Holmes."

Roberson hung up the telephone and chortled merrily to himself. I closed my eyes tight and tried to pretend that I was back in my flat, in my bed, about to be awoken by Jeeves with his flawless tea tray. But the pins and needle in my hands from the too-tight bonds, and the damp smell of the air, and Roberson's cackle tore my every fantasy apart, and ensured that I could not escape the reality of my peril.


	6. The Jewels of Tarpeia

_From the pen of Dr. John H. Watson: In which Holmes and Watson play fast and loose with the laws of the land._

Chapter 6: The Jewels of Tarpeia

"He wishes me to steal the Jewels of Tarpeia," Holmes said.

Jeeves inhaled sharply through his nose. The name clearly had meaning to him, although it had none for me. The provenance of these mysterious jewels, however, was of less concern to me than the risky action Holmes was planning to take to acquire them.

"Good Heavens, Holmes, you agreed?" I asked, horrified. I could scarce credit it, but Holmes's affirmation at the end of the telephone conversation could hardly imply anything else.

"I agreed, but that does not mean that I must follow through. I agreed in order to buy us time." He curled up on the settee and stared into the distance. "I need to consider my options."

"What of Mr. Wooster?" Jeeves queried, breaking into Holmes's reverie. Indeed, the question was a most pertinent one, as I didn't doubt that Mr. Wooster would come to harm if Holmes tried to renege on his deal with Roberson.

"What of him?" Holmes replied.

Jeeves's face took on a countenance as stiff and blank as marble. I, too, was aghast at Holmes's display of callousness. As much as I feared for Holmes, I knew that he was made of stern stuff and possessed ample skills of self-preservation. Mr. Wooster, however, with his easy nature and general trust in the basic goodness of mankind, had all the self-preservatory instincts of a naïve child. The idea of leaving him in Roberson's clutches to fend for himself was intolerable. I said as much to Holmes. "Mr. Wooster's life is at stake! Surely we must take that into consideration."

"I am considering all the variables."

"He's not a variable, Holmes. He's an innocent young man who has never faced this sort of danger before. We have a duty to protect him."

"What would you have me do?" Holmes snarled. "Become Roberson's lackey? If I play his game, dance to his tune, then he wins."

Jeeves cleared his throat with a delicate cough. His voice was smooth and his expression unreadable save for a glitter in his eyes. "Would you allow your client to be murdered, sir? Surely such an event would be a blot on your record."

"Mr. Wooster is not my client."

"Then I will employ you on his behalf."

"I'm retired. I no longer accept clients."

I perceived Jeeves's strategy, and threw my lot in with him. "You know that's not entirely true, Holmes. You cleared up the death of that science master."

"He died right in front of me; what else was I to do?"

"There was also the affair of Mr. Wiseman's missing painting just last year."

"A favour for a close neighbour."

"'Close neighbour?'" I scoffed. "His house is ten miles away and he's even more unsociable than you are! You yourself admitted that you knew little about him; before the incident you'd only spoken to him once in all the years you've lived in the district."

"A neighbour regardless," Holmes waved his delicate hand dismissively, as if he were swatting away a gnat.

"And don't forget the time you saved that poor girl from the cruelty of her step-father."

"It was a heinous thing to do to a child. Any man with a shred of decency would have acted as I did under the circumstances."

"Nobody else could have acted as you did, Holmes. You barely slept for two weeks, gathering evidence and concocting a method to put him in gaol where he belonged without bringing shame on the mother or child. And there were the Rhondda Valley murders that were all over the press in '07. Then there was that hideous time you dragged us both to Scotland in January to assist the Edinburgh police. And that government fraud case that Mycroft brought to your attention. And the outlandish experience with the travelling carnival, which still gives me nightmares upon occasion. And-"

"Enough, Watson." He raised his hands, whether in surrender or to hold off the onslaught I was not sure. Either way, I had made my point. I settled into silence, knowing well after my many years with him when to push and when to retreat. As I expected, my patience was rewarded. When he spoke, it was quietly but with more candour than I had heard from him in a long time. "I have always valued justice; more than anything else in this world, justice is what makes existence bearable. One can live-perhaps happily, perhaps not-without faith, without temperance, without love, without freedom, but take away justice and all falls into disorder and the world tears itself apart. If ever I broke the letter of the law, it was because justice is more important than any man-made decree. What Roberson asks of me is nothing less than a perversion of my skills, using them to betray what I hold dear. What justice is there in violating the home of an innocent person? What justice is there in abetting a criminal in amassing ill-gotten wealth?"

I sat beside him on the settee and laid my hand upon his shoulder. It was hard as steel beneath my grip. It grieved me to see his distress, all the more for my own part in causing it. If I had not written those private accounts, if I had argued on Mr. Wooster's behalf and convinced him to flee to safety and leave Roberson to us, if I had been able to shoot Roberson before his shot clipped my head and left me in a daze…fault after fault stretched out behind me like footprints. Weighed down with sorrow, I could not speak. Jeeves, however, had no such guilt to contend with, nor concern for Holmes's comfort of mind.

"What justice is there, sir, in allowing Mr. Wooster to suffer for the sake of your pride?" he asked. Holmes flinched under my hand, although his face did not show the sting that I knew Jeeves's words had evoked.

Cutting as the remark was, it roused Holmes from his introspection. After Holmes's initial shock, he gathered his resolve, straightening in his seat, his cool grey eyes sharpening their focus as his thoughts returned from whatever disquieting inner landscapes they had been wandering.

"Just so," Holmes said. Once the matter was decided, Holmes threw himself into the task whole-heartedly, as was his wont. He sprang from the settee and fluttered about the room, punctuating his words with graceful gestures of his fine hands. "I shall need information and I shall need it quickly. Roberson has given me until Monday night to accomplish the task-a woefully inadequate amount of time, but I must make do with what I have. I shall require both of you to assist in the preliminary research."

"I am more than happy to assist you, as always, but if I'm to help, I'll first need some information myself." I gathered my thoughts in order. "First, the Jewels of Tarpeia. I confess, I've never heard of them. What are they? Gemstones of some sort?"

"The Jewels of Tarpeia are pieces of ancient Etruscan jewellery," Holmes answered, "a diadem and collar set, made of gold and inlaid with cabochons of black garnet. The set is priceless, not only for its material value but its antiquity."

Jeeves added, "They are owned by Lady Elizabeth de Glanville, and she considers them to be among her prize possessions, wearing them for only the most extravagant of occasions and otherwise keeping them locked away in a safe." Now that Holmes was following the desired course of action, Jeeves's mask was less cold, and he was once again the epitome of the helpful valet. The shift was smooth and near imperceptible and I was forced to reassess my initial opinions of the man. His intelligence and devotion were self-evident, but I had hitherto failed to recognize his talent for manipulation. Never before had I seen Holmes so skilfully turned from his initial course with merely a few words, and apparently without Holmes aware that he was being herded.

"You are familiar with the lady's habits?" Holmes asked, fixing his rapt attention on Jeeves.

"Yes, sir. One of my second cousins was a footman for the household for many years until he recently married. At that point, he decided to take a position in the country as he believed it would be better for the prospective children."

"Go on," Holmes waved for Jeeves to continue. "What else can you tell me?"

"Very little, sir. Only that the family keeps two dogs loose in the yard at night-large, black brutes-and that the house itself is fitted with electric burglar alarms at all the doors and windows. The safe in which Lady Elizabeth keeps her jewels is in her boudoir, which is directly adjacent to her bedroom. It is hidden in the wall behind a small Rembrandt."

"Good Lord," I said. "you know everything but the combination of the safe!"

"Alas, I cannot help you there, sir."

"No matter," Holmes replied. "Cracking the safe will be the easiest part of my task. I will need tools, however. Mr. Jeeves, would you be so kind as to have our luggage sent here from the James Hotel near Victoria Station?"

"Yes, sir." Jeeves left the flat to make the arrangements with the doorman.

I gave Holmes a quizzical look. "You brought safe cracking equipment with you?"

"I anticipated the possibility that I'd be required to break into Roberson's rooms to retrieve the papers. I certainly didn't expect to use them for common crime."

"I dare say there's nothing 'common' about this whole affair."

Holmes's lips tightened in a grim smile. "I plan to make this business appear as common and ordinary as can be, so that there is no clue, no irregularity, which can be traced. The investigative powers of the Metropolitan police may not be much, but it's better not to take unnecessary risks."

Jeeves returned. "A man has been sent to fetch the luggage. Shall I prepare a bedroom for you, gentlemen?"

"For Watson, perhaps, but not for me. I'm going out." Holmes said. "I don't expect I'll be back before breakfast."

"What can I do?" I asked.

"For now, nothing. Rest. Tomorrow, first, go directly to Cox and Co. and find out if Roberson does indeed have the papers or is merely bluffing. If the papers are still in your dispatch box, retrieve them, bring them back here and burn them immediately. After you have accomplished that, go to the surveyors' office and get me as many blueprints for the house and its surrounds that you can. Oh, and stop by the chemist's and purchase some morphine."

My jaw slackened and my eyebrows shot up. After many years of effort, I had for the most part weaned him from his addictions, although there were still the occasional slips. But even during those times when he was most captivated by the poison, he had never once succumbed to the temptation of the needle while on a case.

Holmes rolled his eyes. "For the dogs, Watson, for the dogs." With that final statement, Holmes slipped into his coat, dropped his homburg on his head and whisked himself away out the door and onto the London streets.

Jeeves led me to the guest room and saw me settled in for the night. After a few scant hours of lonely and restless sleep, I rose early to face what was sure to be a busy day. The wet, smoky scent of bacon and the sweetness of buttered toast wafted through the air. No sooner had I taken my seat in the dining room than Jeeves arrived with a cup of tea and a marvellous breakfast.

Although I'd always lived comfortably enough and had little to complain about regarding the state of my finances, the services of a valet were a bit of a novelty. Mrs. Hudson, God rest her soul, had never been so smooth and efficient in her housekeeping or quiet in her comings and goings. Jeeves, on the other hand, was so silent that it was easy to forget that he was there, a remarkable feat for a man who was broad in the shoulder and taller even than Holmes. His face rarely betrayed a hint of emotion, yet it was clear from his actions last night that he was deeply devoted to his master, the kind-hearted Mr. Wooster, and that encouraged me to be well disposed towards him despite the fact that I knew little of him.

I thought of the distress that had slipped out last night from under his professional mask when Mr. Wooster's safety was on the line. I understood well the sort of emotions that must be stirring beneath, having witnessed them in many a client and having experienced such fear myself. Sympathy compelled me to offer hope. "Holmes will get him back, you'll see. He'll get the jewels, make the exchange, and Mr. Wooster will be returned safe and sound before you know it."

"As you say, sir," Jeeves replied, his face as still and unmoving as before. He showed no flicker of either concern or confidence.

I didn't know what I expected-a visible relaxation of features, a glint of optimism in the eyes-but there was no sign that my words had affected him in the least manner. Jeeves's expression was completely impenetrable. Either he cared less about his master than I supposed, although my memory of last night dismissed that possibility, or else his feelings were even more obfuscated than Holmes's. I left him to his privacy, then, and said no more.

As soon as I finished my tea, I left to carry out the errands with which Holmes had tasked me the night before. Jeeves offered to take care of the matter of the surveyors' office, arguing that the task required a great deal of discretion, lest it be tracked to the soon-to-be burglary, and that he had certain connections that would help him.

I was at the doors of Cox and Co. the moment they opened for the day. My dispatch box was still in the vault, but the compromising papers themselves were no longer inside. I could not report the theft, for the ruckus that would incite would prompt difficult questions and, furthermore, would interfere with Holmes's plans. Nevertheless, I casually probed the staff and discovered that jokes about the bank being haunted had been bandied about over the last few weeks. It started when a clerk swore that he had seen a shadow in the dark corridor to the vault. He went to investigate, but no intruder was found, and nothing was ever reported missing, so the whole event was dismissed as a young man's overactive imagination and the Tale of the Haunted Vault was born.

After I had completed my business with the bank, I dropped by the chemist's on my way back to Berkeley Square. Acquiring the drug was a simple task, made doubly so by my medical credentials.

By eleven o'clock, a bottle of morphine sat on the table next to the flower vase, and a neat stack of blueprints competed for space with the morning _Times_. Despite Holmes's assurances that he would be back after breakfast, there was still no sign of him and I began to worry. It had been many years since he had spent much time in London, and there were a thousand ways an elderly gentleman walking the streets alone at night might come to peril. Although Holmes still possessed his wiry strength and kept himself fit with long walks and frequent swims in the ocean when the weather permitted, he was not as robust as he had been in his younger years, loath though he was to admit it. The image of a young hooligan with a knife murdering Holmes for his pocketbook lodged itself in my mind and refused to be shaken out. When the telephone rang, I started, roused from my unpleasant reverie. Jeeves answered the phone.

"Mr. Wooster's residence...No, Lady Worplesdon, I regret to say that he is not available...No, he is not sleeping off the effects of too much drink...He has left the house for the day...Yes, Lady Worplesdon." The call ended.

I raised my brows in inquiry. Jeeves replied. "That was one of Mr. Wooster's relatives. She was hoping to have a word with him today."

"You didn't tell her the truth?"

"I thought it highly imprudent to do so, sir. Roberson was quite explicit in his views regarding police involvement, and Lady Worplesdon is not one to sit idly by while strangers manage affairs. She would insist on calling Scotland Yard."

"It still seems a bit unfair that she remain ignorant of the danger her own kin is facing. If she knew the truth, she'd be worried sick."

Jeeves's mouth twitched in scepticism. From this I gathered that there was no love lost between Mr. Wooster and this relative of his, nor did Jeeves think highly of her.

We spoke no more to each other through lunch, save for idle pleasantries. Just as Jeeves was clearing the luncheon plates, Holmes burst into the flat. He looked every inch like a man who had spent the night prowling the backstreets of London, all stubbled cheek, wrinkled clothes, dishevelled hair and red, sunken eyes. His palms of his hands were scraped raw and his fingernails cracked and filthy.

"Where in heaven's name have you been, Holmes? And what have you been doing to put yourself in such a state?"

Holmes ignored my questions. "Damn Roberson and his unreasonable demands! A clever burglar would observe the house for weeks before making a move. He would learn the house and its routine; he would take note of the layout; he would determine the obstacles and prepare methods for overcoming each one in turn; he would-"

"Court the maidservant?" I said tartly.

"Are you still bitter about that old deception?"

Holmes was not the only one who could ignore direct questions. "You were at the de Glanville house, then."

"For part of the night, yes," Holmes replied. "It is just as Mr. Jeeves said. Two dogs, a lawn girded by a stone wall about seven feet high. There are twelve servants in all. The lady, her husband, and their three young children are all currently staying in the house." Holmes sighed. "This is not going to be easy. Did you get the blueprints?"

"Jeeves did." I pointed to the stack. Holmes snatched them up and rifled through them, nodding his approval.

"Excellent." He strew them about the sitting room floor with seeming abandon. Jeeves shuddered at the chaos. "The street." He waved his hand over one section of paper-covered floor. "The house." His hand fluttered again in the opposite direction. He sat down Indian-style on the rug and shuffled through the blueprints, occasionally marking them up with a short pencil.

When the doorbell rang, Holmes did not appear to notice, so thoroughly engrossed he was in his task. My first thought was that the police were back, and I instinctively hurried to where Holmes sat, thinking to hide the blueprints, although there were far too many, and too scattered to gather them all up quickly enough to do any good. When reason reasserted itself, I reckoned that it was something quite innocuous, a friend of Mr. Wooster's, or a delivery. Either way, standing in the middle of the room looking shifty was not the ideal action to take. I settled myself on the chair, mimicking Holmes's lack of concern.

Jeeves glided to the door. On the other side was a formidable looking woman of near my own age. "Lady Worplesdon," Jeeves began.

She burst past him and into the sitting room. "I will accept no excuses, Jeeves. Where is that good-for-nothing nephew of mine? And don't tell me he is 'unavailable'; I know an evasion when I hear one." She stopped in her tracks when her eyes fell on the scene before her. She frowned at me as I politely rose to my feet, but when she saw Holmes her expression turned to open distaste as she took in his unkempt guise.

"Who the devil are you?" She looked at Holmes. Holmes opened his mouth to reply, but was interrupted before he could speak. "Don't bother to answer. I can see clearly that you're one of those bohemian dilettantes-some sort of so-called 'artist' or 'philosopher'. I know your type, parasites always sniffing about well-off gentlemen, grasping for handouts, decrying money one second then gleefully snatching it up the next. You've been filling Bertie's head with all kinds of silly nonsense, no doubt. Well, I'll have none of it. Where is my nephew?"

Holmes was shocked into silence. It wasn't often that a person-and a woman, at that-dismissed him so thoroughly and completely. Even the mildest of women left him unsettled, although he always took great pains to conceal it. This mortal Tisiphone was far from the mildest of women.

"Lady Worplesdon," Jeeves tried again.

"Where is Bertie, Jeeves?" she asked. "And who are these men?"

"Well, you see, my lady-" I began, hardly knowing what I was going to say, but sure that one of us ought to say something and Holmes was not volunteering for the task.

"Mr. Wooster is considering building a house," Jeeves interrupted. "He is with the contractor now, examining possible lots. Mr. Williams here is a surveyor, and Mr. Harris an architect. You have undoubtedly heard of Mr. Harris's work, mostly neo-Georgian inspired Art Nouveau designs. He is in high demand on the continent and Mr. Wooster was very fortunate to catch him between commissions."

"Of course I've heard of him! Who has not?" Despite her protestations, her eyes betrayed the nervousness of one who does not wish to be caught ignorant. "But why would Bertie need a house? He has no wife, no children; what does he plan to do with it?"

Jeeves gave a discreet cough. "Lady Worplesdon, I have reason to believe that Mr. Wooster hopes that his domestic circumstances will soon change."

Lady Worplesdon frowned in bewilderment. "Do you mean to say he's engaged? And he has not told me?"

"He is not yet affianced, my lady, but it is my impression that he plans to offer his pledge soon."

"Well, what kind of girl is she? And why hasn't he introduced her to the family? It's some frightfully unsuitable match, isn't it��"a waitress, or, heaven help us, a chorus girl, some uncultured, shrill female without a speck of good breeding in her, a gold-digging, dim-witted trollop. Bertie never did have good sense or taste. That must be why he's keeping it a great secret. Well, I shall put a stop to that."

"When he hears of your disapproval, my lady, I am sure he will abandon the idea."

Holmes broke into the conversation, his voice high-pitched and reedy with a hint of a Scottish accent. "I hope Mr. Wooster hasn't been wasting my time. I do have other clients."

Lady Worplesdon looked down her sharp nose at Holmes. "Mr. Harris, I assure you that far more esteemed people than you have had their time wasted by my nephew."

"My time is worth money. I expect to be compensated."

"I fail to see that you have done anything that warrants payment. Surely you don't expect to be paid for," she sneered, "sprawling about the ground like a heathen and looking at drawings. My young step-son could do that free of charge."

Holmes's lips tightened. I could not tell if his annoyance was part of the role he was playing or genuine. "How like a nob to clutch at your pocketbook as if you were destitute the second someone mentions money."

"How like a wastrel to demand a salary for lazing about."

I decided that the squabble had gone on for long enough, and would only get worse if I allowed it to continue. "Lady Worplesdon," I bowed. "We're very sorry for any inconvenience that Mr. Wooster may have caused by engaging our services. As soon as he returns we'll sort the matter out."

"Well," she sniffed, eyeing me up and down. "You at least have respectable manners. You might consider teaching them to your vulgar colleague." Lady Worplesdon allowed herself a slight softening of the lips that might have been a smile. Holmes snorted at the implication but thankfully said nothing.

As she was gathering herself to leave Jeeves spoke, "I shall tell Mr. Wooster that you inquired after him, my lady. He will be most distressed to have missed your visit."

"Tell him that I will expect to see him tomorrow," Lady Worplesdon stated.

"My lady, I'm afraid that Mr. Wooster is going to be in the country tomorrow. He has already made all the arrangements and cannot cancel on such short notice."

"Nevertheless, cancel it he will. I shall not be put off so my dolt of a nephew can waste time playing golf with his friends."

"It is a rather more serious matter than that, my lady. Your sister, Mrs. Travers, personally commanded Mr. Wooster to present himself at Brinkley Court tomorrow."

"What could Dahlia want with a dunce like Bertie?" Lady Worplesdon asked. She shook her greyed head. "I suppose they are well suited to each other. She's nearly as foolish as Bertie is. Very well. He is to take luncheon with me at my hotel the day after tomorrow, and not a second later."

"I will ensure that he does, Lady Worplesdon." Jeeves herded her out the door.

Once she was gone, Holmes barked out a sharp laugh. "I'm compelled to wonder if Mr. Wooster wouldn't rather remain kidnapped," he said.

"She wasn't as bad as all that. You're just upset that she was not in the least bit intimidated by you," I said, returning Holmes's jibe.

"You and the women," Holmes grumbled.

The remaining hours of the afternoon and evening passed in rapid planning. Receiving invaluable input from Jeeves regarding the location of Lady Elizabeth's boudoir, Holmes set himself to memorising the layout of the building and determining the best point of entrance. Supper came and went, of which Holmes, predictably, did not partake. He did nap on the couch for a few hours, much to my relief. He had not slept at all the last two nights, and I did not care for the idea of him carrying out such a dangerous and delicate task while frayed from exhaustion. Although the hour was growing late, I remained in my dinner jacket. When Holmes woke shortly after midnight, he must have noticed my attire, but he did not say a word. Instead, he retreated to the lavatory and shaved off two days worth of stubble. By the time he finished his ablutions, it was a few minutes before one in the morning.

"Freshening up for your night on the town?" I teased him, darkly amused by Holmes's priorities when he was about to embark on burglary.

"I will appear less suspicious on the streets, going to and from the house, if I am clean-shaven and respectably dressed."

"Ah, I should have known there was a sensible reason for it," I replied.

He glanced at the clock. "It's time," he said. "Jeeves?" Jeeves nodded once and vanished into the kitchen, reappearing seconds later with packages of meat wrapped in butcher paper. These Holmes stuffed into his satchel, along with the bottle of morphine, his lock picks and other burglar's tools, one of my old stethoscopes, a length of rope, and a torch modified to give off a dark red light instead of the usual white.

"If I'm not back by dawn, assume the worst," he said.

I stood before him and crossed my arms over my chest. "Holmes. I'm going with you."

"Watson-"

I raised one hand to halt Holmes's words before he spoke them. "You are about to make a very logical argument illustrating why I should not accompany you."

"Naturally."

"I will then ignore everything you say, logic be damned, and insist on staying at your side."

Holmes raised one brow. "Given the historical evidence, it is very likely."

"In the interest of saving time, let us skip the intermediate steps and progress straight to the moment when I remain resolute and you, at last, relent."

Holmes chuckled. "Oh, my dear Watson, who am I to refuse you?" The mirth vanished from his face. "It will be dangerous."

"I expect nothing less when I'm with you," I retorted.

The satisfied smile that spread across Holmes's lips and the smugness in his narrowed eyes made me glad that I had stubbornly held my position. I would have stepped forward to take him in my arms, but Jeeves's light cough reminded me that we were not alone and neither Jeeves nor Holmes would appreciate the impropriety.

Holmes turned to Jeeves. "If we don't return, Roberson's arranged meeting place is at the docks, in the Falmouth Shipping Company vault, tomorrow night. Do what you can to negotiate Mr. Wooster's release."

"I will, sir, though I hope that it will not be necessary."

Holmes nodded once in acknowledgement before darting out of the flat. I followed close at his heels, trusting that Holmes knew what he was doing or else all our attempts to escape Roberson's persecution would come to naught and we would end our days in a prison cell. The maximum penalty for burglary was harsher than that for sodomy. It we were caught, Roberson would not need to bother making my papers public to see us imprisoned, although spite and the added bonus of turning us into social pariahs would undoubtedly drive him to do so anyway. I wondered if Holmes would have taken the risk had Mr. Wooster's life not been on the line.

Holmes and I took a cab as far as Hampstead Heath, and from there made our way on foot to the grand residence of the de Glanville family. The night was grey and damp, a chill drizzle turning the buildings on either side of the street into shapeless masses in the haze. I turned up my collar, pulled my bowler more firmly down upon my head, and hunched against the light rain. Once we were at the wall that girded the de Glanville house, Holmes snatched the hat off my head, relieving me of even that small guard against the wet. He doffed his homburg as well and tucked it, along with my bowler, behind a small bush.

"It wouldn't do to have them fall off in the middle of our burglary," he murmured. His grey hair grew slick and dark from the rain. With the dim light from a far away streetlamp erasing the lines and hollows of his face he looked just as he had thirty years ago. I couldn't help but to smile. If he noticed my amusement, he didn't question it. "I'll be the vanguard, opening locks and leading us to the lady's boudoir. You will be my lookout. If you see anything, any movement, any light, don't say a word, simply tap my shoulder twice, like this." He demonstrated with two firm taps. "And follow my lead. Understood?"

"Understood." I suppressed the urge to give a sharp, military salute. I wondered if there was some magic in the air that stripped away the years, for just as Holmes seemed to me to be young again, so too I felt like an excitable youth seduced by the promise of adventure.

I watched the street with sharp eyes, ready to warn Holmes should I see any passers-by, while he swiftly and efficiently dosed the packaged meat with the morphine I had supplied. Once this was accomplished, he rewrapped the cutlets and placed them back in the satchel. "There will undoubtedly be some barking," he said, "but it can't be helped. The drugs should silence them quickly enough, and with luck the noise will be dismissed as excitement over a stray cat or another such innocuous interloper." His eyes were darting here and there, taking in whatever part of the grounds there was to be seen over the wall. He took particular note of a nearby tree, going so far as to point a long, white finger at it. "I'll go over first and subdue the dogs; you follow when I give the signal."

"Do be careful, Holmes. It would be a shame if you were to end your life by pasteurellosis brought on by a dog bite."

Holmes chuckled. "That _would_ be an ignominious sort of death, wouldn't it? Have no fear, Doctor. I plan to perish in a manner far more extraordinary than by a mere infection." With those less than reassuring parting words, he sprung into the air and clambered over the wall. I waited, straining my ears to catch any sound of growling or snuffling that would indicate that the hounds had found Holmes. I need not have bothered to exert my senses, for when the dogs came they came with a racket that must have been heard a block away. Amongst the barking and howling there was a rustle of leaves and snapping of twigs, and then Holmes was sitting safely in the branches of the nearby tree, visible over the wall.

The barking stopped as abruptly as it had begun, and I could only assume that the dogs had found and begun to devour the meat, as it would take some moments for the consumed drug to take affect. We waited patiently, Holmes in the tree and I by the kerb. A few minutes later, Holmes descended and then reappeared perched on the top of the wall, one hand reaching down to me. I grasped his wrist and quickly scaled the partition. The instant my feet were firmly on the ground once more, Holmes laid his gloved hand against my lips. His meaning was plain: no speaking from here until the mission's end. The ends of his fingers stroked against my moustache as he slowly drew his hand away and my lips tingled at the absence of his touch.

Holmes, however, was utterly unaffected and wholly professional. He motioned me to follow and crept across the lawn. Two enormous black mounds, the sleeping dogs, broke the monotony of the smooth, flat turf. Trees dotted the grounds here and there, and Holmes kept to the long shadows they cast. As we drew closer, I could see that it was a beautiful residence, two stories high, with elegant Corinthian columns by the main doors and large windows that glistened in the misty rain. He took us to one of these windows, which looked in on the dining room, and swung the satchel off his shoulder. I cast my eyes over the area, watching for any sign of trouble while Holmes retrieved his burglar kit.

Half the tools inside looked more fit for an electrician than a criminal, but I had no doubt that they served some purpose. First, he took out the torch with the red light and with it he made a careful examination of the whole perimeter of the window frame. Next, he retrieved the glass cutter and cut away a portion of the window right up against the sill. He slid both hands into the hole and felt along the inside wall, the glass gouging long lines into his leather gloves. Finding whatever it was he was looking for, he withdrew his hands and took up the electrician's tools��"a spool of thin copper wire, wire cutters and a pair of needle-nose pliers. He cut off a section of wire, and armed with this and the pliers, once against slipped his hands through the window.

I couldn't see what he was doing, but it was clearly taking every ounce of his concentration. His mouth was firmly set and every small motion careful and deliberate. After standing outside and exposed for what felt like an age but couldn't have been more than a few minutes, Holmes breathed out a small sound of satisfaction. He repacked his tools and opened the window with a proud flourish. No alarm sounded and I let myself sigh in relief.

I climbed in after Holmes. A sharp stinging awareness, the nervous crackle that one feels when one is in peril, ran through me. While we were out on the lawn, there was still a chance that we could run and escape if were we caught. Trapped in the house, our position was far more precarious. Even when faced with the prospect of capture and arrest, however, I could not keep the exhilarated smile from my face, for I had always found enjoyment in adventure, just as Holmes thrilled when faced with a challenge. Criminal, dishonourable, and in terrible danger, yet at this moment we were more alive than ever.

Holmes took my hand and led me along as we padded our way through the hallway and up the stairs to the first floor, his keen eyes picking out obstacles, even those lost to my sight in the shadows. At the next to last door at the end of the corridor he stopped and put his ear to the keyhole. He must have heard only the sounds of deep sleep, for a few seconds later he nodded once in satisfaction and drew me to the next door over. Holmes took a bit of oil from his bag and greased the hinges so it opened without a sound. We stepped inside and closed the door behind us so that a wandering servant or family member passing by would not notice anything amiss.

The modified torch came out from the satchel again. Holmes thrust it into my hands and I dutifully turned it on, casting an eerie, blood-red circle of light. The Rembrandt that Jeeves had mentioned was simple to pick out, even to my artistically untrained eyes. Holmes plucked it from the wall and, just as Jeeves had promised, behind it was Lady Elizabeth de Glanville's safe.

Holmes motioned me closer. I pressed up against his side and held the light still and close by the safe's lock. It was a basic steel box with a combination lock rather than a keyhole. Holmes took out the stethoscope and set to cracking the safe, cool and methodical as any practiced thief. He was fixed on his work and was likely hearing nothing but the click of the dial, so I kept my eyes and ears alert to any movement in the house. It seemed to take an interminable length of time. My nerves stretched every second into hours and rankled at the enforced stillness at a moment when every animal instinct was screaming for action. I envied Holmes his focus and control.

At last the safe opened. Holmes reached in and pulled out a massive, twisted rope of gold. I had time for only the briefest glance before Holmes tucked it and his stethoscope back in the bag. The deed was done. No mere trespassers, we had now taken by stealth what was not ours to take. We moved quickly to finish our work. Holmes closed the safe while I fetched the Rembrandt to re-hang on the wall. Once the room was put back to rights and we stood at the door to the hall, Holmes retrieved the torch and dropped it in the satchel as well. He listened at the door for signs of life in the corridor, and when he heard none he took my hand again and led us through the darkness.

We were almost to the stairs when my hindbrain noticed a flicker of light at the edge of my vision before my conscious self realised what it was. There was no time to warn Holmes. I acted on instinct, grabbing him around the waist and pulling him back against me behind an armoire. Holmes did not question or protest, but remained perfectly still in my grip, his only movement the expanding and contracting of his ribs with each breath.

The light grew closer, jumping and flashing across the floor��"a candle, then, guttering with each step the bearer took. I peered over Holmes's shoulder, scarcely daring to breathe and wondering what we would do if we were caught. Then the late-night pedestrian was upon us, shuffling by with sleepy steps. It was a boy of no more than ten, eyes half-closed and looking neither left nor right as he made his way down the hallway. He passed us without a glance and continued on his way. I did not hear Holmes's silent, relieved laugh, but I felt it in the shudder of his lanky frame.

As soon as the boy had taken himself and his candle into a room and out of sight, Holmes and I hastened down the stairs and to the dining room. We met with no more surprises inside the house and climbed out the window. Once outside, Holmes shifted his satchel more securely on his shoulder and whispered against my ear.

"Quickly now." He dashed off across the wet lawn and I followed as swiftly as I could, cursing the stiffness in my leg that the damp air exacerbated. I reached the wall many seconds after Holmes. He, making a stirrup with his hands, gave me a boost up. Crouching on the top of the wall, I reached down to assist him in turn. We leapt down to the pavement in unison.

Holmes was breathing heavily from the mad sprint across the lawn, but his mouth was open in a wide grin and he was laughing between pants. "Good Lord, when that child walked by I thought we were finished!"

I rifled through the bushes, trying to find where Holmes had stuffed our hats. "There were moments I was sure my heart would burst from anticipation. I'm getting too old for this sort of thing." In truth, however, I'd not felt younger in years. Perhaps it was the excitement, the adventure. Perhaps it was the sight of Holmes's outrageous merriment. Whatever the reason, I wished to hold it close before it slipped away.

"Too old? Nonsense, my dear Watson." Holmes was recovering quickly from the earlier exertion and spoke with barely a hitch. He stepped over and found the hats in a second, dropping his homburg on his head before placing my bowler on mine, straightening the brim with care. "You did admirably. Now, let us complete our getaway." He took my arm in his and we walked away from the scene of the crime.

We took no more than a few steps, however, when I stopped Holmes with a command. "Wait," I said. It was a night for risks and audacious exploits and the bold spirit of adventure was not gone from me yet. I took his face in my hands and pulled him into a deep kiss, there on the empty street, almost daring a passer-by to come and catch us.

I took him by surprise, which was such a rare thing that I enjoyed the kiss all the more for it. The curl of his laughter still lingered as the drizzle of rain rolled off his hat brim and slid down his face, dripping past his lips and chilling the heat of his mouth.

Even when the kiss broke, we stayed close, our cheeks touching. Holmes was once again breathless. He raised his hand and placed his fingers on my mouth for the second time that night. This time he did not draw away immediately, but allowed his touch to linger until I could taste the leather of his glove.

All too soon, however, he dropped his hand and the moment ended. He took a small step back, re-establishing a respectable distance between us. Holmes's hat was cocked back on his crown, dislodged from its proper place by my enthusiasm, so I straightened it for him.

He coughed and licked his lips, finding his equilibrium once more. I smiled with pride at ruffling him so. Alas, it was not to last. When next he spoke, it was as if nothing untoward or remarkable had happened.

"We should press on," he said. "We're going to have a devil of a time finding a cab at this time of night."

He was, of course, correct. We walked for nearly three-quarters of an hour and were soaked to the bone before we chanced upon a cab driving the Highgate streets in the wee hours of the morning. It was not far to Mr. Wooster's flat and before long we were standing at his threshold dripping rainwater in front of his door. I rapped on the wood, hoping that Jeeves had not fallen asleep.

I need not have worried, for when Jeeves answered the door, he was as pressed and clean and alert as if it were three in the afternoon instead of three in the morning. I felt twice as clammy and ragged in comparison. He had anticipated our needs marvellously, carrying a pair of soft towels draped over his arms. I accepted one with gratitude and wiped the rain off my face.

"You were successful, I gather?" Jeeves asked while he helped Holmes peel himself out of his wet coat and jacket.

"Quite so," Holmes replied. "I confess I was a bit concerned about the electric alarm as I'd never seen one of that design firsthand before, but as it happened it was simplicity itself to jump the circuit." He took up the satchel and wandered into the sitting room, ignoring the water dripping from the hem of his trousers. Jeeves eyebrow twitched when Holmes dropped his still wet self onto the settee.

While Holmes rummaged though the bag, I dried myself with the towel as best I could. I dearly wished to change into dry clothes, and began to take myself off to the guestroom to do just that when I was interrupted.

"Watson!" Holmes called out. "Come here."

Summoned, I came, though not without some resentment. "Holmes, can't it wait five minutes? I'd like to get into something a little less drenched. You could do with a change of clothes yourself."

He dismissed my concerns with a flick of his hand. "Time for that soon enough. Look." He raised our stolen loot, these Jewels of Tarpeia, for my admiration, like a little boy showing off a mouse he'd captured.

The jewels were indeed most impressive. The diadem was not, as I had imagined, a small circlet, but a broad headdress with a fall of golden chains. The collar was likewise massive, yet with a delicate aesthetic for all its size, filigreed in intricate patterns around each perfect, black stone.

"See the granulation? This sort of skill and artistry was lost for thousands of years. Only in the last few decades have jewellers been able to recreate this sort of detail."

Jeeves had hung our coats to dry and now joined us in the sitting room. "From the graceful design and the soldering technique I would speculate that it dates from the late sixth century B.C. It is a truly magnificent piece."

"A fit ransom for Mr. Wooster?" Holmes slyly cocked one eyebrow.

Jeeves did not rise to the bait. His face remained impassive and he spoke without inflection. "Indeed, sir. May I fetch you some tea to ward off the chill?"

Holmes shrugged indifferently, but I thought hot tea sounded splendid and told Jeeves so, thanking him for the offer. Jeeves glided off to the kitchen, leaving us to our own devices.

Holmes gently cradled the golden collar in his hands. He smoothed his thumb over one of the cabochons, staring into the gem as if enthralled by the dark and distorted reflection it cast back. In a wholly unexpected move, he lowered his head and draped the collar on his shoulders. The gold was bright against the black cloth of his waistcoat. There was something both outlandish and absurd about Holmes donning ill-gotten priceless antiques over his damp and old-fashioned set of evening clothes.

"It doesn't suit you at all," I said.

"Ah well," Holmes replied with an affected air of regret. He removed the collar and placed it next to the diadem. He was silent then, staring off into the distance, thinking about Mr. Wooster and tomorrow's exchange, perhaps, or else about the very professional crime he had committed this night. Or he might have been dwelling on the flight patterns of bees, for all I could tell from his vacant expression. So many times he had seemed to read my mind simply by using his wonderful skills of observation and deduction. I wished so often I possessed the same talent where he was concerned.

Although I am no detective, I am a moderately skilled doctor, and although I could not read Holmes's thoughts on his face, I could read the drawn and pale face and shadowed eyes. Holmes had been running himself ragged and was in sore need of food and rest even if he would not admit it nor was even likely aware of it.

I interrupted his reverie. "I'm going to have a word with Jeeves. Why don't you get some dry clothes?" He nodded vaguely in reply. It was enough to know that he heard me, whether he'd take the suggestion or not was another matter.

I found my way to the kitchen where Jeeves was just arranging the tea set on the tray. "I'm sorry to bother you, Jeeves, but Holmes has barely eaten these last two days. Can I trouble you to make up something simple? A bit of toast would be fine, so long as he gets something in him."

"Of course, sir. We have some pasties left from lunch, would that do?"

"That would be perfect."

Jeeves fetched an extra plate, placed two pasties on it and arranged it all on the tea tray. When we returned to the sitting room, however, Holmes was stretched out on the settee fast asleep. I sighed, ruing the sheer impossibility of inducing the man to eat.

"Shall I offer him the use of the guestroom, sir?" Jeeves asked. It was the room I'd slept in last night. My clothes were hung in the wardrobe. I understood what Jeeves was subtly asking, and it was an attractive thought, to have Holmes sleeping at my side again for the first time in nearly a week. When I looked at Holmes's peaceful form, however, I knew that I could not accept the offer.

"No. He has such a terrible time falling asleep sometimes that I don't dare wake him now. He needs the rest too much."

"Very well, sir."

"If you have some spare blankets, though, I think he could use them." Fond exasperation coloured my voice. "The reckless fool is still in his wet clothes and I don't want him to catch a chill."

"I shall fetch a duvet immediately."

When the blankets were brought out, I took them from Jeeves's arms and spread them out over Holmes's sleeping form. I tried not to think about tomorrow's headlines and the burglary they were sure to report. I also tried not to think about seeing Roberson again, although I knew we could hardly make the exchange otherwise, for he was sure to use the opportunity to taunt Holmes. As I brushed his damp and tangled hair away from his forehead, I tried not to think about his hand on my lips, there and then gone, like a swift break of light amidst dark clouds, swallowed up by the gloom as quickly as it had come.


	7. Stolen Goods

_From the pen of Bertram W. Wooster: In which an exchange is made._

Chapter 7: Stolen Goods

The odious Roberson seemed content to keep me tied to that chair until Judgement Day, when the Son of Man comes in His glory, and all the angels with Him. (I remember that bit from school, where I won the Scripture Knowledge Prize. And let me tell you that although I don't usually go in for that kind of thing, the more hours I spent trapped in Roberson's rooms, the more appealing the idea of divine judgment against the wicked became, for Roberson was a grade-A sinner if ever I saw one.)

The woman, Ettie, came in a few times, bearing food of which I was allowed to have none. After the second time this happened, my stomach began to growl and moan and generally make a fuss. I wished I could follow my stomach's example, and raise every sort of racket, but I dared not while Roberson was in the room. The heavy curtains remained closed, so I had no sense of time beyond what the thin sliver of light that cut between the gap in the fabric could give me. Its presence signalled that day had come, and some time later its absence marked that night had again fallen. Twice during that time I was allowed a chaperoned visit to lav. Around evening, I was freed again for a few minutes in which I was allowed a magnificent drink of water-the best water I can ever recall drinking, so desperate was I for a drop to wet my throat.

The next day, Roberson left the rooms for a time and Ettie was set to watch over me. This seemed a lucky turn of events, for I'd always had some luck winning the hearts of fillies, whether I wanted to or not in many circs. I thought that Ettie might be swayed by pity for my plight.

"Excuse me," I paused, confused on what to call her before I settled on, "ma'am. But I don't suppose a fellow could get a spot of whisky and s., could he?" I decided to start small, rather than immediately jump to, "Be a good sport and let me go, what?" I didn't want to make my move too quickly. Girls tend to get offended when you do that, or so my friend Bingo assures me.

"And what have you done to deserve a whisky, love?"

I blinked in befuddlement, but at least she hadn't given me an outright rejection. "Am I supposed to do something?"

"That depends on you. Do you want a drink?"

"Well, yes," I replied.

She shrugged one shoulder-QED in gesture form. I pondered what I was supposed to do to earn a drink, but nothing came to mind. I then remembered that I was supposed to be convincing her to do things for me, not the other way around. I wondered what Jeeves would do if he were here, and concluded that he'd come up with some corking plan to turn this state of affairs to his advantage. The trick was to think like Jeeves.

First, I imagined myself as Jeeves-like as I could. In my mind's eye, I put myself in Jeeves's clothes, his pinstriped trousers, his bowler hat, which sunk down over my eyes until I shrunk it a bit, and his black morning coat. I looked quite dashing, I thought to myself, although not as dashing as Jeeves. This led me to wonder what Jeeves was wearing, if I was wearing his suit. The thought of Jeeves in naught but his underclothes made my face burn with a rosy blush, but I was sure that he'd never allow himself to be seen in such a state of dishabille. Therefore, to save him from embarrassment, I put him in one of my suits, the respectable beige tweed and, in a fit of mischief, the purple tie that he'd "lost" last week. He looked not at all pleased with me, but it was my imagination, dash it all!

In my mind, I said to him, "Now, I'm you and you're me."

Jeeves-in-my-mind looked dubious. "If you say so, sir."

"Now, I am-that is to say you are-tied up. Kidnapped."

"Whatever shall I do, sir?"

"Exactly. Whatever shall you-that is to say I-do."

"My first priority would be to endeavour to undo the knots that tether me, sir."

"They're dashed tight knots, Jeeves. There's no undoing them by myself. That is to say, yourself."

"Then, sir, it would seem that assistance is required."

"Just my thought exactly, Jeeves! I even have an accomplice in mind. There's a woman who works with the fellow who kidnapped me. I could exert my wiles upon her."

Jeeves-in-my-mind raised a doubtful eyebrow one-quarter of an inch. "I could not recommend it, sir."

"Well then what the blazes can I do? Or rather, you do."

"You ought-that is to say, I ought-to be patient and allow my valet to take care of the situation rather than haring off on a plan that will only complicate matters further, sir."

"Well!" I huffed. "Some use you are! You are dismissed, Jeeves. Go read your Spinoza or whomever."

The Jeeves-in-my-mind inclined his head and departed. I felt lonely without him and wondered if I'd been hasty in sending him away, but it was too late now. I'd just have to think up a corking plan on my own. I let the little grey cells ponder the problem for a few moments, and at last a thought came to me, so sudden and bright that I suspected that the Jeeves-in-my-head had left it behind when he biffed off and I'd just stumbled upon it.

"Eureka!" I cried out, for that's what one cries out when one comes upon something splendid. I must have said it aloud, for Ettie gave me a queer look. "For me to do whatever it is I'm supposed to do to earn a drink, you'll have to untie me." My logic was impeccable. She would have to yield before it.

Said yielding was slow to happen. Instead of rushing to release my bonds, she merely stood where she was, one hip cocked and her red-painted lips curled in amusement. "Oh, I wouldn't be so sure of that if I was you."

My face crinkled in puzzlement and I bowed my head in thought, able to make neither heads nor tails of her riddles. She had side-stepped my impeccable logic by being completely irrational. "Tied up, the only thing I can do is sit here. If that were all it took to get a drink, I'd be woozled by now."

She laughed. "You are an innocent, ain't you? Poor dear. Marcus'll eat you up and spit you out."

"I do hope you don't mean that literally." I didn't think Roberson went in for cannibalism, not really, but given all the other crimes he had committed, and given what a bad egg he was all around, I couldn't be too careful. She only laughed again. It was a strange sort of beazel who found cannibalism funny. Clearly, she was as cracked and depraved as Roberson.

"Don't you look so down in the dumps, hey?" she said. "Marcus hasn't killed you yet, and that means he don't plan to. He's got another use for you. Ransom, I'd bet, from your fine clothes and your fancy speech. Your wife will pay up to get her handsome lad back, and the two of you will leave none the worse off except for being a bit lighter in the pocketbook."

"That's all very well, except for the fact that I'm not married."

"Really now?"

"Yes, really."

"You're rich, easy enough on the eyes, less of a swine than most men, and you say you ain't married? You must be either a loony or a nancy."

"I say!"

"Sorry to offend you, love," she said, looking not the least bit sorry at all. "I just tell it how I see it."

"Anyway, it's not like that at all," I said. "This Roberson chap's not interested in me or my family or my money; it's all about Holmes. You've heard of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, haven't you? The world's only private consulting detective and all that? Well, by a strange and remarkable twist of fate, the famous Mr. Holmes ended up on my doorstep and in my flat. Roberson's after him-some sort of vendetta like Captain Whosits and the white whale-and I just had the bally misfortune to get in the way. Now I'm stuck here tied to this chair, which is not a terribly comfortable chair, mind you, especially not after countless hours of constant companionship with it, until Holmes gets these Jewels of Tarpon. No, that can't be right. A tarpon's a fish; I remember Jeeves telling me that. I would be dashed silly to have jewels named after a fish. Anyway, he's supposed to steal these Jewels of Whatever and give them to Roberson. _Quid pro quo_ Roberson will then give me to Holmes, then he can take me back to Jeeves where I belong."

At some point during my little explanation, Ettie had paled. Her painted lips were the only colour on her face. "Sherlock Holmes, you said?"

"The very same."

Her reaction was swift. She paced about the room wringing her hands and muttering to herself. At last, she whirled on me. "Marcus trades you for these jewels and then everyone goes their separate ways, yes? Everything's done?"

"Yes. As far as I know."

"Good. That's good. Just plain business and nothing more." She said nothing else to me and ignored all my further attempts to gain her good will.

It was dark again by the time Roberson came back. He had four ruffians with him, big, brutish chaps who looked like they went by names like "Big Eddie" and "Baby-face Al." They were all armed.

Roberson untied me from the chair. As he did so, he hissed, "If you try to escape or otherwise cause us any trouble, you will regret it. Understood?"

"Of course I understand. What kind of idiot do you think I am?"

Roberson and his cronies laughed. "I know just what sort of idiot you are," Roberson said. "Lucky for you, it's the useful kind." He dragged me to my feet and bound my wrists together before prodding me out the door. Outside, there was an empty cab waiting. One of Roberson's thugs got behind the wheel, and all the rest of us piled in. I was crammed in the back seat with the three others tight as sardines in a can. I couldn't move well enough to affect an escape, even if I'd possessed the nerve to try. We drove a long ways, but between the darkness and the massive bodies separating me from the windows, I couldn't see where we were going. My first and only clue of my whereabouts arrived when I got a whiff of tar, rotten fish, and other even more malodorous things...if malodorous is the word I want. Yes, I think it is.

A few minutes after this first assault on my nose, we reached our destination. As my nostrils suspected, we were at the docks. Roberson unlocked a nearby door and shuffled us down into one of the wine vaults, a dark, gloomy sort of place, like a catacomb. How he got a key I couldn't fathom until the current of my thoughts carried a scrap of knowledge to me, like flotsam on the river. I remembered Holmes telling me of Roberson, that his family was in the shipping business. This dank cellar must have been one of his.

There was no electricity laid down in the vault, and the sole lamp barely illuminated more than ten feet. The room might have gone on forever as far as I could tell. Casks, hogsheads, and barrels lay piled one atop the other in rows that stretched out like a labyrinth until they vanished in the shadows.

Roberson grinned at me. "For the love of God, Montresor."

I wrinkled my nose in confusion. "My name is Wooster." I reminded him. "Bertram Wooster. One would think you could at least remember the names of the poor devils you've kidnapped."

"It's Poe, you nitwit."

"No, it's Wooster. I'm bally sure I know my own name."

"Edgar Allen Poe, the author," Roberson snarled. "From 'The Cask of Amontillado.' I could bury you alive in here and no one would ever find you."

Well, there wasn't much a chap could say in reply to that, and so I was silent as Roberson sat me down on one of the casks and his four accomplices stepped out of the circle of light cast by the lamp and disappeared.

"And now we wait," Roberson said.

No one spoke or moved. Here, deep in the wine vault, it was as if the outside world and all its noises of life had ceased to exist. The silence was too unnerving for me. "You know, I'd never realized what an uncomfortable position sitting upright really is before being forced into that position and no other for Lord knows how many hours."

"We wait _quietly_."

"It's just that it's a bit too quiet, if you know what I mean. Really chills a man's soul, this quiet-as-nuns-in-a-library sort of quiet."

Roberson cocked his revolver and aimed it at me. "It would be a lot quieter if you were dead."

I quailed looking down the barrel of a gun. "Sorry," I whispered. "I'll be quieter. You won't hear another word out of me, I give you my word as a Wooster, and a Wooster's word is-" Before I could finish telling him about the value of the promise of a Wooster, he raised his pistol and brought it down upon my head. My vision narrowed and the encroaching darkness became absolute.

When next I cracked open my eyes, I had a splitting headache and my stomach was feeling none too pleased with itself either. It felt like the morning after a particularly corking night at the Drones club, only without any of the spotty memories of soused enjoyment to make up for the present misery, and no Jeeves on hand with his amazing restorative. There were voices speaking; squinting in their direction, I recognized Holmes's lanky frame silhouetted by the open doorway. Watson lurked just beyond the threshold, against the wall and half-covered by the doorframe. I looked around for Jeeves, and saw him at last, his dark suit rendering him almost invisible in the black stairwell. My heart rose at the sight of him, for so long as he was near, I knew I was safe.

Roberson was speaking. "I hardly need to tell you that I have friends nearby. I'm sure you've already deduced it. Any false move and they will fire." He sounded strangely friendly about the whole thing, as if announcing potential murder were on par with telling a drinking pal about the odds at the Royal Ascot.

"I expected as much," Holmes replied. "Let us finish this quickly."

"Ah, good old gloomy Mr. Holmes, all business and no pleasure. Are you sure you wouldn't care for a drink first?" Roberson waved an arm at his surroundings. "As you can see, there's plenty to go around."

"I think not."

"I suppose it can't quite compare to your favourite vices. Very well, although you can't say that I didn't try to be a good host. Now, let me see the jewels."

Holmes unlatched the satchel he carried and pulled out an impressive pile of gold. He twisted it around his hand, encouraging the black gems to catch the light like still waters reflecting the moon. He poured the thing back into the satchel then and placed it at his feet.

"Well done, Mr. Holmes, very well done. Your caper will be the envy of every cat burglar in London." Roberson clapped his hands. "You take to crime so naturally, or perhaps I should say unnaturally, given your preferred illegal activity. Little crimes, big crimes, it's a wonder that people call you an ally of the law. You've blinded the world to your hypocrisy quite effectively. Not even the late Moriarty had such an impenetrable cover."

Holmes's expression did not change. My years with Jeeves have made me adept at reading even subtle shifts of mood, but Holmes may as well have been a corpse for all the life in his face. "There are the jewels. Now release Mr. Wooster."

Seizing my arm, Roberson yanked me to my feet, the sudden change in elevation a matter of great distress to my already moody stomach. Had I been allowed any food during my imprisonment, I'm sure that it would have made a reappearance right then and there.

"Here is your Mr. Wooster, safe and sound, just as I promised." Roberson pushed me and I staggered forward, nearly toppling head-over-heels, until a strong hand, which was neither Roberson's nor Holmes's, steadied me. Roberson, ignoring my near collapse, continued speaking to Holmes. "You've gone to quite a lot of effort in order to retrieve the boy. I do hope Dr. Watson isn't the jealous type."

"Your insinuation is tasteless and absurd," Holmes replied.

I, meanwhile, let my gaze trail up past the previously mentioned saviour's strong hand, to black clad sleeve, to broad shoulder, to chiselled jaw and brilliantined head. I leaned heavily against Jeeves's arm��"for that was the identity of my saviour��"and blinked up at his much missed visage, wishing that my vision would stop spinning so I could get a good proper look like I wanted. In retrospect, I imagine that we looked much like the covers of a romantic novel, the ones that feature some toothsome filly swooning in the arms of a handsome man, the two gazing adoringly in each others eyes. Jeeves, of course, didn't look even a quarter as soppy as your traditional romantic hero, but there was a certain...thingness in his expression that made the Wooster lungs breathless and did nothing to improve my dizzy spell. My whole world was whirling about and I clung to Jeeves, who was the only point of solidity. For the first time, I felt some degree of hope that the tender feelings that had arisen in me over these many years might not be entirely unwelcome and unreciprocated.

"Are you injured, sir?"

"Bit of a knock on the head, is all. I've had worse. I could really go for one of your cocktails and a nice cigarette, though, and when I get home I'll want an entire five course meal. I've been hungry for...how long has it been since I was snatched up?"

"Two days."

"Two days? Good Lord, you mean to tell me that I haven't eaten in two days? Well, no wonder the midsection is feeling a bit hollow. Two days." As Jeeves manoeuvred me towards the exit, Holmes and Roberson continued to exchange hostile words.

"I may call upon your services again, of course," Roberson said. "Since I still have your dear doctor's manuscript in my possession, you would do well to obey my little requests."

Holmes smiled a tight, vicious, little smile. "Many men have threatened me, craftier, stronger men than you. I am still here. They are not."

"But it is not you alone I am threatening."

"That is your worst mistake of all." Holmes turned his back to Roberson then, not fearing that he would receive a bullet in it. Watson standing guard at the doorway with his revolver out may have had something to do with Holmes's fearlessness.

Jeeves escorted me out of that dark hole, but before Holmes could close the door behind us, Roberson called out, "I'll have you broken and begging before I'm done. I promise you that."

Then we were up the staircase and out onto the street. Dr. Watson noticed my weakness, and gave me a quick examination under the light of a streetlamp. He declared a "minor concussion, but nothing life-threatening" and ordered me to inform him immediately if my symptoms got worse instead of better. Heartened by his diagnosis, I tried to walk unsupported for a few steps but was so wobbly that a passer-by might have mistaken me for a nattily dressed drunken sailor on shore leave. Within half a second, Jeeves had my arm draped around his shoulders and his hand at my waist, holding me against his side.

"I shall take you home forthwith, sir."

"Jolly good. Home, sweet home. That's what some fellow said, and what a spot of insight it is. Whoever came up with it must be truly one of the great thinkers of history, right up there with such luminaries as Socrates and Thomas Aquinas."

"I believe you are referring to the American dramatist John Howard Payne, who wrote the words approximately one hundred years ago as part of his opera _Clari, Maid of Milan_."

"John Howard Payne. I've never heard of him. Are you sure it wasn't Socrates, or your chap Spinoza or someone like that?"

"Quite sure, sir."

"Oh."

Things were already returning to normal. Jeeves was with me, his marvellous brain overflowing with knowledge of every sort, and the two days spent in Roberson's capture were relegated to the unhappy past. The only out-of-the-ordinary thing that remained, aside from my wrinkled clothes and empty stomach, was the presence of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson. I didn't dare meet Holmes's eye for fear that he would learn that Roberson had betrayed his personal affairs to me. Holmes clearly did not want the nature of his relationship with Dr. Watson known to all and sundry, for obvious practical and legal reasons. He would probably be distressed to find that I knew. The only gentlemanly thing, therefore, was to act as though I knew nothing.

As we walked down the street��"well, they walked, I staggered��"looking for a cab, I spoke to them. "I know it's a bit late for supper, but I'd be happy to put on the nosebag with you if you've a mind to, or share a drink or two if you've already eaten."

Watson replied. "We would be happy to." I thought that this "we" might have been a bit optimistic, as Holmes didn't look happy at all, but as he did not protest, I was willing to accept it at face value.

"And you must fill me in on what happened before you toddle off to wherever. I've spent the last two days kidnapped and haven't the faintest clue what went on in the outside world. That is to say, it would be a rummy thing to just be ransomed off with the Jewels of Tarpon or whatever and then sent about my merry way without a few explanations. What kind of story would that make for my grandchildren? Not that I have plans to have grandchildren, but if I were to have grandchildren, it would make a right disappointing story for them. 'What ho, young Woosters. When I was a lad, I was involved in an adventure with the famous Sherlock Holmes. I don't rightly know what exactly the adventure was or how it was resolved, since I spent the whole bally time tied to a chair, but there was an adventure.' "

"I'm sure Watson would be more than happy to oblige," Holmes said. "He adores weaving tales. Just don't expect the result to be entirely accurate."

Watson shook his head in resignation. Minutes later we found a cab at last. Once we arrived back at my flat, I took myself away to freshen up a bit, for after two difficult days my clothes were not fit for polite company. Jeeves, meanwhile, cooked up a quick and simple meal.

We ate in relative silence. Or rather, I ate, and ate voraciously, my mouth too full to engage in conversation. Jeeves and Watson had dined earlier and did not partake. Watson endeavoured to persuade Holmes to eat, for evidently he, too, had scarcely eaten in the last two days. He met with little success on that front, although he did convince Holmes to partake of a few bites. When supper was done, I felt much invigorated; my headache was fading and my stomach settling down into quiet contentment. We retired to the sitting room where Watson regaled me with the tale of my missing two days��"the phone call, the burglary, and the plans made for my safe retrieval��"with Holmes interjecting to make occasional corrections. I was awed and humbled by the effort that had been put forth for my benefit.

The hour, already late when we arrived at my flat, grew later still. After my third glass, Jeeves coughed politely to remind me of the time, and said, "Perhaps I should arrange a cab for Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson so that they may return to their hotel."

I started and looked at the clock. "Oh. Yes, I suppose you're right. It is getting late and we all need our shut-eye."

Watson rose to his feet but Holmes remained seated and spoke up. "If we might take advantage of your hospitality, Mr. Wooster, it would be both more convenient and safer for us to room here. A hotel is a frightfully insecure place from which to plan an attack. Were Roberson to discover in which hotel we were staying-and I've no doubt he could-it would be simplicity itself for him to infiltrate our hotel room. Whereas here we can be on guard, tell the doorman to refuse him admittance if he should call, and keep the doors locked and bolted against him. The flat is far from impenetrable, but it is still a good deal more secure than a hotel."

I was ready to acquiesce on the spot, but Jeeves said, "If I may suggest, sir, that it would be safer for Mr. Wooster if he were not involved any further in this affair."

"He's already involved. Roberson knows his name, where he lives, and that he has a connection to me. No, Mr. Wooster is most certainly involved."

"Well, that settles it," I said. "You saved this Wooster's bacon tonight, and it would be churlish of me to fail to return the favour as best I can. This Roberson devil is still out there and we would all be better off if we stuck together. Safety in numbers and all that. Besides, if you and Jeeves could learn to use your great minds in unison, well, with two geniuses at work against him, Roberson would be sure to fall. What do you think, Jeeves?"

Jeeves had that stuffed-frog look that meant that he wanted to say something that was not entirely in the feudal spirit. I motioned him aside and we retreated to the far corner of the room away from Holmes and Watson. "All right, spit it out, Jeeves."

"I think it would be inadvisable for you to pursue such a potentially dangerous course of action, sir. Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson's problems are not ours."

"But you're always willing to help out my other friends with their troubles and vexations."

"Your friends were never in predicaments that threatened your very life."

"I don't know about that. Roderick Spode in a high dudgeon is a fearsome thing indeed."

"Sir, Lord Sidcup's threats against you, however heartfelt, are not as alarming as the prospect of you challenging a known murderer."

"Jeeves, under normal circs, no chap loves the uncomplicated life more than yours truly. Indeed, I've had quite enough excitement for one week, and would happily return to the days when my most pressing problem is whether to wear the grey tie or the blue. Yet, a Wooster never abandons a true friend in need, and so, danger or not, I insist on lending aid."

"With due respect, sir, you have known these gentlemen for two days, during most of which you were imprisoned by a ruthless criminal."

"I'm surprised at you, Jeeves. Duration of time does not true friendship make. For example, I've know Gussie Fink-Nottle since my old Eton days, yet I could hardly call him a bosom friend. Whereas you, Jeeves, I have known for only a few years, and yet I-" I broke off, aware that I was about to reveal a bit more than I intended to. I cleared my throat and returned to the topic in question, namely, the loyalty I owed to Holmes and Watson. "Besides, they committed burglary for me, and it's not just anyone who does that. Usually I'm the one who's forced to play the light-fingered cad on behalf of others. In fact, the only other person I can think of who has done similar on my behalf-risking life and limb, flouting the law-is, well, you, Jeeves."

"Sir-"

"No, Jeeves. My mind is made up. Chez Wooster will be base of operations." I sidled up to Jeeves even closer and whispered to him, "Besides, you can't tell me that you don't want to get back at that devil for wreaking havoc in our life. The man kidnapped me, for goodness' sake. He held a gun to my head. One can't just let something like that slide."

Jeeves' eyes darkened. "The idea of retribution does hold some appeal, sir."

"And two geniuses are better than one. So they're staying here and we're taking this rotter down."

"Yes, sir."

"Right-ho. That's settled then." I strode back to where Holmes and Watson were finishing a private conversation in a manner similar to the one Jeeves and I had just engaged in. "You can stay as long as you like," I said to them.

Watson looked at Holmes then nodded meaningfully at me. Holmes cocked one eyebrow. "Before we accept, I must ask if you understand the risks."

"Absolutely," I replied without hesitation.

"Roberson is a cold-blooded murderer. If you permit us to remain under your roof, you are putting your life and the life of your manservant in danger."

I looked to Jeeves. It was one thing for me to risk my own life, another thing entirely for me to risk Jeeves's. His expression was calm and resolute; he inclined his head towards me. "I appreciate your concern, but I have full confidence in Jeeves's ability to keep us safe from harm."

"Very well, we accept your generous offer."

"Jolly good. Now, to sleep. I'll have Jeeves make up the guest room and-" I stopped as I remembered that I wasn't supposed to know about the state of affairs between Holmes and Watson. Besides which, the last time I'd seen them for any length of time they were a bit pipped with each other. Although their tempers were cooler now than they'd been two days ago, it was entirely possible that they wouldn't want to share a room. "Oh wait, there's only one guest room. You surely don't want to share one guest room. Perhaps Dr. Watson can take the…no, that doesn't work…Jeeves will take my room and I'll take…wait, no…" I was tying my brain up in knots searching for a solution to the dilemma. Just when I thought we'd have to recourse to someone sleeping in the sitting room��"that someone being me, seeing that I couldn't very well be so rude as to deny my guests a mattress, and I couldn't imagine Jeeves willing to give up his privacy to take his forty winks on the chesterfield��"Jeeves jumped in and salvaged things, as usual.

"I shall handle the matter, sir," he said. I waved my hand at him to indicate that he should proceed as best he saw fit. "Will you be availing yourself of a bed tonight, Mr. Holmes?" Jeeves asked.

Watson jumped into the conversation. "You really ought to, Holmes. The immediate crisis is over and you need rest."

"Doctor's orders?" Holmes scoffed.

"If you like."

Holmes sighed begrudgingly. "Far be it from me to disobey my physician." His words were conciliatory yet carried the hint of a mordant edge.

Jeeves gestured towards the guestroom. "In that case, gentlemen, if you will follow me." With that he led them both away. I toddled off to my own room to put on my cerulean pyjamas, knowing that Jeeves would soon return to assist me. Indeed, not five minutes later, he was in my room turning down the bedclothes.

I crawled under the covers and wriggled with pleasure. I don't know if you've slept in a chair, perhaps to the accompaniment of a particularly dull teacher, but if you have not, then let me tell you that it's not a very comfortable experience, especially when it's not just a short nap while the history master drones on about the Civil Wars, but an entire night spent trying to get your eight hours while seated. A soft mattress and smooth sheets, therefore, were like the fluffy clouds of heaven upon which angels sleep by comparison. I watched Jeeves pluck my cast-off garments from the floor and put them in the hamper and knew that all was as it had been before the kidnapping. Merely watching Jeeves glide about the room, being his wonderful, Jeevesian self, made my heart skip a beat in my chest. I wished I could find an excuse to keep him near me longer, but my sorry brain was uncooperative, failing to come up with an innocuous task for Jeeves to perform.

As Jeeves was leaving, he turned in the doorway and said, "Good night to you, sir."

"Good night, Jeeves," I replied.

He turned off the light and departed. The room was dark, and not just in the prosaic, lightless sort of way that a room is dark when the lights are off, but in a silent, forlorn sort of way when the person who is the light of your life has up and left. I lay morose and wakeful. Suddenly the bed didn't seem as comfortable any more. I tossed and turned first to one side, and when that proved no better, tried my luck with the other. But no matter what position I put myself in, I could not find rest, not when there were so many things I wanted to say but dared not.

As I pondered my quandary, the significance of Jeeves's actions earlier this evening hit me like the proverbial tonne of bricks. He had blithely escorted Holmes and Watson to the same guestroom, ergo, Jeeves must also be cognizant of their arrangement and, at least implicitly, was in full support of it. That, when combined with the tender look he gave me back when he helped me out of Roberson's lair, indicated that Bertram W. Wooster might actually have a chance of successfully courting one Reginald Jeeves. At the very least, his treatment of Holmes and Watson made it clear that if I'd misread the Jeevesian psychology _vis a vis_ Self, I'd suffer no worse than utter humiliation and abject heartbreak. In short, I trusted that he'd not ring up the police or use the knowledge to bring down the good Wooster name.

There were obstacles, of course. For one thing, he was in my employ, and inequity of that sort is rife with the potential for abuse. His livelihood was in my hands and I could never be so dishonourable as to take advantage and press my unwanted attentions on his person, even if his marvellous intellect was a source of awe and delight to me, and the sight of his broad shoulders shifting under his black coat or sunlight glinting on his brilliantined head set my heart all a-flutter.

Under normal circs, I'd set the problem before Jeeves and he'd straighten the whole thing out. I was leery to do so in this case for obvious reasons, but in the end I decided that there was no better course, and since the problem concerned Jeeves himself, it was only right to involve him in the search for a solution. With that decided, I rose from my bed, wrapped myself in my dressing gown and set forth to seek out Jeeves.


	8. Matters of the Heart

_From the pen of Dr. John H. Watson: In which Bertie and Jeeves's relationship changes and Holmes and Watson's does not._

Chapter 8: Matters of the Heart

Jeeves led Holmes and me to the guestroom with its solitary bed. "I trust this arrangement will be satisfactory, gentlemen?"

I had strongly suspected that Jeeves knew about my relationship with Holmes, although I had not been entirely certain. His question, however, made his suppositions clear, and my answer would confirm their accuracy. "Yes, this is perfectly satisfactory. Thank you, Jeeves."

"Then if you will pardon me, I must return to Mr. Wooster. He has been through quite an ordeal." With that said, Jeeves left us alone. It was our first moment of true privacy since we came to London.

Holmes wasted no time loosening his tie and stripping off his jacket and waistcoat with a careless haste born of peevishness. Despite his obvious irritability, I admired the long, lanky form slowly being revealed. The touch of Venus began to steal over me, but I drove such thoughts from my mind. Holmes needed sleep, whether he admitted it or not, so simply lying by his side again would have to be enough. Before long, Holmes was prepared for bed and enveloped in his dressing gown. Nevertheless, instead of settling under the covers as I hoped he would, he paced up and down the floor.

He paused to light a cigarette, and then resumed his perambulations, saying, "So far, Roberson has had the upper hand in all our encounters. We need to change the balance of power, put him on the defensive."

"Could you forget about Roberson for just a few hours?" I said, removing my collar and cuffs.

His grey eyes, full of reproach, fixed on mine. "So long as Roberson is free, he is a threat. We would be unwise to forget that."

"I understand, but there's nothing you can do about it at two in the morning, and if you don't get some sleep, you won't be fit to do anything about it tomorrow, either. Your eyes are so red you look positively demonic and you're as pale as a ghost."

"A demon and a ghost," Holmes snorted in derisive laughter. "Your gothic sensibilities are in fine form tonight. Next you'll be comparing me to Stoker's Dracula."

"Just lie down, Holmes. Please."

"With the retrieval of Mr. Wooster, the only thing he holds against us are your damned writings. Our strategy must be two-fold. We must find evidence of renewed criminal activity on Roberson's part. If the courts won't give him the noose, at the very least we can see to it that he's locked up for the rest of his life. Furthermore, we must find and destroy the papers to safeguard our own reputations. If we fail in that, well," Holmes smiled, "there's always the option of fleeing to Paris, _mais oui_?"

"Holmes--"

"I have no doubt at all that he's returned to his old ways. His sort of criminal--remorseless, sadistic--always does. Tomorrow I will make inquiries--"

"Sherlock!" Uncommon as it was for me to address him by his Christian name, surprise stopped him short. At last I had his attention. "For heaven's sake let it be and go to sleep."

His head was cocked as if curiously examining me for the source of my outburst. He blinked a few times before responding. "I do apologize if I am keeping you awake, my dear Watson. My mind is racing still. I have no inclination to rest."

"Your mind may be racing, but your body is exhausted. You'll do yourself harm if you spend yet another night sleepless." I implored as best I could. "Is there anything I can do?"

Holmes did not answer at first, but at least he ceased his wanderings and stood in contemplation. "I need a cup of tea," he said at last.

"The last thing you need right now is a stimulant."

"Then I'll have herbal tea, if Mr. Wooster keeps any. Would that satisfy you?"

"It's an acceptable compromise," I said. Holmes began to stride to the door, but I stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. "Provided that you permit me to take care of the tea while you lie down."

Holmes grimaced, but saw that I was not to be swayed on this. He rolled his eyes and then draped himself across the bed, looking at me expectantly. His gaze, half-petulant, half-daring, tempted me to forget the tea entirely in favour of kissing that expression from his face, but it was my duty as his friend and his doctor to see to it that he rested. I could not allow him to distract me from that goal. He was set on having tea before sleep, and so tea he would have. After that, no more excuses, if I had to tie him to the bed myself.

I wrapped myself in my dressing gown and went in search of Jeeves, hoping he was still awake so he could point me in the direction of the tea leaves. I padded down the hallway, but stopped short when I heard voices. Peering around the corner, I saw Mr. Wooster standing at the door to Jeeves's quarters. I waited where I was so that I would not interrupt, assuming the conversation to be the innocuous and businesslike sort of thing that passes between gentlemen and their menservants.

"...that whenever I'm in the soup, I come to you to help me out," Mr. Wooster was saying. "Well I'm not really in the soup, I suppose, not in the grim matrimony looming on my horizon sense, or even in the cracked relations ordering Bertram to risk his skin for some thick scheme sense, or really in any sense at all. Not necessarily."

Jeeves remained silent and attentive throughout the babble. I admired his patience. Holmes would have given up on the conversation about ten words in, and even I would have been hard pressed not to interrupt and guide Mr. Wooster back to his topic, assuming I could ascertain what his topic was amidst all the chatter.

Mr. Wooster continued. "This trouble is entirely self-inflicted, I'm afraid, and I haven't any idea what to do about it. I would have brought the problem before you sooner, but I didn't dare to. You are a party to it, you see, rather intimately involved, and so I couldn't be sure that your response would be unprejudiced. Recent events, however, have spurred me to action. The situation cannot remain as it is, and you are the only one who can help me. So I lay it before you." He paused there, drawing himself up straight and taking a deep breath. "Do you like me, Jeeves?" Mr. Wooster blurted at last.

"Sir?"

"Do you like me?"

"I find you to be a most agreeable employer, sir," Jeeves replied.

"That's not what I mean."

"Then I'm afraid that you will have to clarify your intent, sir."

Mr. Wooster rocked back and forth on his heels, his gaze darting here and there. "Have you ever experienced the walking-on-air, butterflies-in-the-stomach, fire-and-ice feeling of love, Jeeves? Has your brilliant mind ever been turned to mush by the mysterious workings of the heart?"

"I have experienced a certain amount of romance in my time, sir" Jeeves answered cautiously.

"I'm not speaking of romance," Mr. Wooster said. "Flowers and walks in the garden and the other acts that men are obligated to perform with a girl they may or may not wish to be engaged to. I'm speaking of that feeling that you get when you think it isn't possible to live a happy life without a certain, special someone sharing it, and every time you think of that c. s. s. your heart gives a tug, and every time you see him...uh...or her...whichever, depending on the focus of regard for the individual in question...Where was I? Oh yes, every time you see your heart's delight you feel a little shiver go down your spine."

Mr. Wooster waited anxiously for Jeeves's answer. I, too, found myself holding my breath in anticipation. I admit to possessing a strong appreciation for the romantic, and even more, I thought Mr. Wooster a kind-hearted soul who deserved to find happiness.

Finally, Jeeves put an end to Mr. Wooster's suspense. "My lips are stricken to silence, underneath my skin the tenuous flame suffuses; nothing shows in front of my eyes, my ears are muted in thunder, and the sweat breaks running upon me, fever shakes my body, paler I turn than grass."

Eyes wide with shock, Mr. Wooster said feebly, "Yes, that's the one."

"It was written in the sixth century BC by the Greek poetess, Sappho."

"This curse has been plaguing people for that long?"

"It appears to be a fundamental aspect of the human condition, sir," Jeeves said.

"Then Sappho and I have something in common, for that's just the way I feel about--"

"You would be wise to refrain from completing the declaration that I believe you are about to articulate, sir."

Mr. Wooster, rattled by the interruption, mouthed Jeeves's words to himself, translating their meaning. I, too, was surprised by Jeeves's reaction. Hitherto, I had witnessed nothing but the utmost care and attachment in Jeeves's treatment of Mr. Wooster, and the careful observer could detect a certain appreciative spark in Jeeves's eyes when they alit on Mr. Wooster's form.

"Are you saying that I don't inspire...That is, that you don't feel...dash it all!"

Jeeves was silent, his gaze turned towards the floor.

Mr. Wooster's dejected countenance lightened. "You're not denying it, Jeeves. Jeeves?"

Jeeves's broad shoulders rose and fell with his breath. "I am not denying it."

"That's marvellous!" Mr. Wooster grinned.

"On the contrary, sir. It changes nothing."

"You mean, you won't return my affections, freely offered?"

"It would be most inadvisable, sir."

"Why is that?" Mr. Wooster's brow wrinkled in confusion. "I fancy you, you fancy me. What's the hang up?"

"If I may be so bold to say, sir, you are inconstant by nature. What fascinates you one week is forgotten the next. This is not always an unfavourable quality, as it makes it all the simpler to dissuade you from assorted unwise courses of action, but when it comes to my own person, and my livelihood, I prefer not to take the risk."

"Let me get this straight. You're turning me down, giving me the boot, sending me off, crushing this young lover's hopes and asp…asper…asper-somthings under your ruthless heel because you don't trust me?"

"I would not state it thus, but, yes, sir, you are correct in the essentials."

"But…but that's just not on! I love you, Jeeves."

"You love me now."

"And forever," Mr. Wooster retorted. "Jeeves, I don't know how I can prove it to you. If you were a girl, I'd offer to marry you, to shackle ourselves together 'til death do us part, and to hell with anyone who disapproved on account of your station. What I'm saying is that if I could, I'd re-enact that Rosie M. Banks novel with you-you know, the one where the rich young man falls madly in love, woos, and eventually weds the penniless maid."

"Perhaps you are referring to 'Love Unconquered'."

"That might have been the one."

"Or perhaps 'A Fair Lady's Maid' or 'Upstairs, Downstairs' or 'Only for Love'. They all share similar characteristics in plot and structure."

"Yes, yes, yes, it was one of those. It hardly matters which one. The point is, Jeeves, I'd propose to you if I could, and unlike my previous engagements, I wouldn't even ask you to help me get out of it. I'd delight in the prospect of being bound to you in sickness and in health, for richer and poorer and all that. What can I do to convince you that the Wooster heart will be true?"

"I really couldn't say, sir."

"You must realize what a rummy situation this has become. At long last I discover that my pash for you is returned, and yet even as the Lord giveth, he taketh away." Mr. Wooster's eyes were wide with sorrow, and misery sat upon his every feature. "I'll willingly give up my cobalt blue hat for you," he said desperately.

"Although the gesture is appreciated, sir, a hat, no matter how garish, is not of sufficient value to exchange for a heart."

"I'll give up the Aston, then, although we'll have a devil of a time getting to Brinkley Court to visit Aunt Dahlia without the Aston."

Jeeves stiffened. "Monetary value is not what I alluding to, sir."

"I'm sorry. I've made a hash of things." Shoulders slumped and eyes blinking rapidly, Mr. Wooster said, "I suppose I should go now before I make things even worse. I won't-" His words were punctuated by a quiet sniffle, which he tried to disguise as a cough. "I won't bother you again."

Mr. Wooster turned to slink away, morose as dog pining for his owner. He therefore did not see the indecision and longing that crumpled Jeeves's features. It was the most unguarded and despairing expression I had ever seen on the man's usually inscrutable face. I feared that they were both about to make a tragic mistake: Mr. Wooster by conceding defeat so quickly and Jeeves by letting his excessive caution deny him what he desired. Mr. Wooster had not taken one step, however, when Jeeves stopped him with a hand on Mr. Wooster's shoulder. Mr. Wooster stared, dumbfounded, at the restraining hand. Slowly, he was drawn in towards Jeeves until the two were pressed against each other. Mr. Wooster blinked up in Jeeves's face in adoring wonder as Jeeves lowered his head and captured his employer's lips in a gentle kiss. Mr. Wooster closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around Jeeves's neck, while Jeeves in turn wound one hand in Mr. Wooster's hair and let the other fall to his waist. When the kiss ended, they remained wrapped around each other like ribbons around a May pole.

Neither spoke for many seconds. At last, Mr. Wooster broke the silence. "Not that I'm objecting, but I though you said I was unreliable."

"I did. Reason and caution, however, appear to have deserted me." Jeeves's reply was almost too soft for me to hear.

Mr. Wooster nodded. "Another side-effect of the malady."

"Indeed, sir."

Mr. Wooster pulled Jeeves's head down for another kiss, longer, but as gentle as the first, tentative and unsure. When they parted again, Mr. Wooster asked, "So, you're willing to give it a try?"

"Against my better judgment, but yes."

The next kiss was firmer, more passionate. The fabric of Mr. Wooster's pyjamas crumpled under Jeeves's fist. It was many moments before they broke the kiss, breathing heavily. Jeeves smoothed his hand over Mr. Wooster back, as if to wipe away the wrinkles he'd caused. In unison, they stepped towards the open doorway to Jeeves's room.

Mr. Wooster murmured, "I will never tire of you, Jeeves. You'll see."

Their lips met again as they vanished beyond the doorframe. Moments later the door closed. I smiled to myself and made my way to the kitchen. I had overheard enough, more than enough, to know that the last thing they would appreciate was an interruption. I would just have to find my way about the kitchen without Jeeves's guidance.

As I found the kettle and put it on the stove, I wondered whether I ought not to feel guiltier about my eavesdropping. Perhaps my years with Holmes had dulled my good manners, but I felt nothing but soft joy. They were both so young and innocent, even Jeeves for all his calm and worldly intelligence, with a seemingly infinite lifetime of limitless possibilities stretching out before them.

The tea was tucked away out of sight and took some minutes to find. To my relief there was an herbal blend, grassy, the sort of thing one might drink while recovering from a cold, but it would have to do. Once the water came to a boil, I strained the tea and prepared two cups��"-one with a dash of milk and two sugars, the other milky and sickeningly sweet, as Holmes preferred it, having used it as a substitute for a meal too many times.

Thinking upon the scene I'd witnessed, I hoped that all would end well for the two, despite Jeeves's reservations. There were few things on God's earth more uplifting than two souls finding happiness in each other. To my eyes they seemed well-suited for each other regardless of their differences in class and temperament, and deeply enamoured of each other's company. With such thoughts on my mind, I returned to the guest room bearing two cups of tea and a gentle smile.

Holmes noticed my mood immediately. "What is the matter with you?" he asked, accepting the cup and saucer I handed to him.

"Nothing's the matter. Nothing at all. I was merely pleased to see Mr. Wooster and Jeeves getting along well."

He scoffed. My light mood immediately sank under the weight of his scorn, and I found anger rising in its place. It was too much to hope that Holmes might appreciate a touch of romance as much as I. The only time he ever openly expressed anything akin to love was when under disguise as a deceit to further one of his investigations.

The development of our relationship had consisted simply of one unexpected action happening after another. There were never any discussions, declarations, or promises about the matter. Most of the time, one day bled into the next and I hardly thought about it outside my rare melancholy moments. Now, however, touched by what I'd seen, I was keenly feeling the lack of any sort of verbal affirmation that I meant more to Holmes than any of his other familiar possessions, like his clay pipe or his violin.

"Holmes," I said, pausing to drink from my cup. "Have you ever wished you were able to marry?"

"Marry? What on earth has caused you to speculate that I would ever want to? I have always made my feelings regarding women perfectly clear."

"I don't mean a woman-"

"Law and custom are rather precise about the criteria on that score."

"Law and custom be hanged!" I snarled. "That's not what I'm talking about."

Holmes took a sip of his herbal tea and grimaced in disgust. "Marriage as an institution, whether in the real or the theoretical, has never interested me."

"Sherlock," I said. "You know how I feel, you know that I lo-"

Holmes spat a mouthful of tea back into his cup. "This tea is terrible." He rose from the bed, ignoring my protestations, and snatched up his dressing gown, declaring his intention to make a new cup. I followed him out the door.

"Holmes, for God's sake, this is ridiculous," I hissed. In the kitchen, Holmes began slamming cupboards and rattling pots, rifling around as loud as possible, it seemed, presumably to drown out my words. "Holmes-"

"Where is the...Ah-ha!" He dropped the kettle onto the countertop with a clatter. More ruckus followed as Holmes proceeded to tear apart the kitchen. I winced to imagine what Jeeves would think when saw it in the morning.

He dumped the remains of the herbal tea into the sink and rinsed out the teapot, the sound of running water crashing in the basin. More banging and ransacking followed. It was a bit like watching a windstorm devastate the room, leaving a tremendous mess of strewn dishes in its wake.

"Holmes, what are you looking for now?"

"The blasted tea. It must be around here somewhere."

I was about to point him in the proper direction when the kitchen door burst open and Jeeves stalked in, wrapped in a teal dressing gown, his hair wild. "Is there a problem, gentlemen?" he said in icy tones.

"No. No problem," Holmes replied.

"Holmes was making tea," I elaborated.

Jeeves crossed to the pantry in which the tea was kept, and plucked out a bag of tealeaves. "Here is some tea." He placed the bag firmly on the counter. Next he filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove. "Here is the kettle." A clean teapot and two cups came from the cupboard and a tea strainer from a cutlery drawer. "Here is the teapot, the cups, and the strainer." He continued, "Here is the milk." He fetched milk from the icebox. "And here is the sugar. Is there anything else I can assist you gentlemen with?"

I had a strong suspicion that if we were to answer anything but "no," we would shortly find ourselves tossed out on our ears. "I think we can manage," I said.

"Very good." Before Jeeves left, he looked directly at Holmes and said, "Whatever psychological agitation is upon you, I heartily request that you resolve it, preferably with minimal noise."

Jeeves departed, and Holmes and I remained in silence. Holmes boiled the water and strained the tea while I looked on without saying a word. I was by no means finished, however. Our conversation would resume once we returned to our room. I refused a fresh cup of tea, unwilling to condone Holmes's obvious prevarication. With a new cup in hand, he returned to the guest room, while I trailed behind. He set the cup on the nightstand without taking a sip. I sat on the edge of the bed and heaved a sigh.

"Your pretence with the tea was a pretty poor diversion--utterly transparent." Holmes was silent. I continued, "Holmes, for heaven's sake, we've known each other for nearly four decades. Are we ever going to talk frankly about this?"

"Talk about what?"

"You know very well what," I replied.

"I'm afraid I don't, as I can think of nothing between us that requires discussion and I despise pointless natter."

"It does require discussion, whether you think so or not. Holmes, I need to know what you feel."

"Feel," he spat the word out as if it were laced with strychnine.

"Yes, feel. I know you do have emotions, although you do your damnedest to suffocate them."

Holmes narrowed his eyes. "Why now, after all this time? Where did this come from?"

I thought of the tender words exchanged between young Mr. Wooster and his devoted manservant. I didn't doubt that Holmes had deduced the situation between them from the moment he first laid eyes on them, but I was still reluctant to reveal what I had overheard. It was a private moment and not mine to share, especially not with Holmes, who, given the mood he was in, would likely corrode my memory of the affectionate scene with his biting cynicism. "It doesn't matter where it came from. Can you not simply answer? What am I to you? A lover? A companion? A convenience? A bad habit you haven't yet bothered to break? I don't know; you certainly never say."

"Why would I bother to state what ought to be self-evident?"

"Why would you--" I sputtered. "Any sane man would have quit your company long ago."

"That doesn't speak highly of your own mental faculties."

My jaw clenched and I ground out, "This is exactly what I'm talking about. You have all the heart and sensitivity of a machine. I'm not asking you to go on bended knee to declare undying adoration, but just a word, now and again. Leave me with something more than guesses based on your erratic actions. There are enough mysteries in my life; I don't need my place in your world to be one of them. I--"

Before I could get another word out, Holmes seized my hair and pulled me into a violent kiss, open mouthed, sloppy, tongue writhing against my teeth. It was so sudden, so unexpected that it broke my train of thought entirely, and I initially had not the presence of mind either to object or reciprocate. When my scattered thoughts returned, I turned my face away, ending our embrace with a wet smack.

"Holmes, what--"

"Shhhh." His thumb blocked any further words that might have issued from me. I turned away again.

"Holmes, stop it, I'm trying to talk to you. This--" The return of his lips to mine swallowed my protests and his hand, trailing lower and lower down my chest drove them from my mind entirely. I gave in and leaned back into the mattress, drawing Holmes down on top of me.

The years had taken away the urgency of youth, but Holmes's white hands and thin lips never failed to excite passion in me. He pushed my nightshirt up, straddled my hips and began rocking against me, still enwrapped in his own dressing gown. His fingers traced the lines on my chest where the muscle insertions lay under skin and flesh. From any other man, the gesture would seem distant and clinical, but from Holmes, who approached every opportunity for observation with focus and inhuman intensity, it was superb. I slipped my hands past the folds of his dressing gown and caressed the sides of his whippet-thin torso, each ridge of sinew and bone tangible through the fabric of his nightshirt. It was so rare for him to initiate carnal acts that I was compelled to try to speak through my growing desire.

"What is--what is this about?"

Holmes chuckled. "I should have thought it was obvious." As if to demonstrate, he leaned down and licked the edge of my jaw. The air whisking the wetness away was cool on my flushed skin.

His rhythmic rocking continuing against my hips was becoming magnificently intolerable, a promise needing fulfilment. I picked at the knot of his dressing robe with trembling hands, keen to uncover the flesh beneath. I got no further than undoing the belt when Holmes drew away and rose from the bed. A sound of dismay escaped my lips and I sat up to observe his actions, ready to lunge for him and pin him down if needs be if he went to the kitchen for some more blasted tea.

He must have read my thoughts on my expression, for he smirked and said, "Patience. Good things come to those who wait."

I need not have worried, however, for he went no farther than his portmanteau from which he retrieved a few items��"pomade grease, handkerchiefs, and, to my confusion, a book of matches. All these he placed on the nightstand. He swiftly divested himself of dressing gown and nightshirt, leaving them in an untidy pile on the floor. I thought to follow his example, but before I could do more than raise the hem to my shoulders Holmes was once again astride me, pushing me supine, snatching my wrists and pulling my arms over my head.

"Stay there," he whispered in my ear, squeezing my wrists once in monition before sliding his hands down my arms. Obedient to his whim, I left my arms where he'd placed them, although my fingers twitched with the instinct to grasp, to hold, to embrace.

Holmes popped the cap off the pomade and dipped his fingers into the sticky substance. When he touched me, I gasped at the shock of the cold pomade on my overheated flesh and arched and shuddered as the chill ran through me. Holmes sighed at that, the first sign, beyond the grossly physical, that he was as deeply affected as I was.

He shuffled forward, and then, reaching behind him to hold me in place, slowly settled down until I was entirely sheathed within his body. We paused there, unmoving, waiting. My heartbeat throbbed in my throat and I wanted desperately to reach out to him��"the muscles in my arms jumped and flexed with the impulse--but I refrained, obeying Holmes's command.

The matchbook was next to come to his hands. He struck a match and, leaning low over me, held it in the few inches of space that separated us. The tiny flame cast sinister shadows over his face and sparkled in the depths of his grey eyes. The edge of a frown puckered my brow. I trusted Holmes and knew that he was no sadist, but his impulsiveness could be disquieting, and his love of the grotesque sometimes led him in directions I had never imagined.

To my relief, he pursed his lips and blew the flame out. The puff of his breath and the sulphurous smoke washed over my face. Bowing his head, Holmes rested his cheek on mine, his nose buried in my throat, and inhaled deeply.

"The smell of match smoke is so unlike that of natural wood," he murmured.

"Just don't set fire to the bed," I said in resignation. Holmes was the most sensual man I had ever known--in the most literal meaning of the word. He took extraordinary delight in engaging his senses in unpredictable ways. As this worked to my advantage more often than not, I never attempted to curb his idiosyncrasy.

I felt his smile in the way his cheek rounded against mine. He flexed his thighs, rising then sinking over me. I groaned at the sensation and thrust up in turn. Soon, we fell into a steady rhythm. Holmes grasped my hands and placed them on his body, an unspoken signal that I was now free to move as I wished. Overcome by my newfound liberty, I could hardly decide where to touch--first his face, stroking my thumbs over his sharp cheeks; then his back, exploring the curve of his spine, the bone of each vertebra and the dip above his buttocks; then his legs, squeezing encouragement with each contraction of his muscle.

Every few minutes he would maddeningly cease, lay a hand on my hipbone to stop my own thrusts, light another match, blow it out, and indulge in the scent. After the fourth such time, I snatched the matchbook from his hands and threw it at the door. Forestalling any protest that might ensue, I pulled him down into a kiss, grasping him by the hair with one hand and reaching between us to stroke him with the other.

Unhindered by interruptions, he rode me ferociously, until we were both panting and sweating. Minutes later, his rhythm staggered, fell, his fingers clenched on my shoulders hard enough to be painful and he pulsed out his release, gasping and whimpering with sensation. I wrapped my arms around his back and held him close, thrusting up in desperate bursts until I, too, lost myself in his embrace. My vision darkened and I knew nothing but the warmth of his body on and around me and the sharp scent of sweat and pomade.

We lay entwined for a moment, breath and heartbeat coming down from the celerity to which they were raised. When Holmes rolled off me I immediately came over in goose bumps from the chill of the air after Holmes's warmth. He offered me a few handkerchiefs, retrieved from the nightstand and I wiped away the worst of the mess. Holmes buried himself under the blankets without a word and curled on his side away from me, at last chasing sleep. It was only later as I lay gazing at the dark ceiling, that I realized that Holmes had once again avoided saying anything meaningful.


	9. ...And Punishment

_From the pen of Bertram W. Wooster: In which there are consequences._

Chapter 9: ...And Punishment

I awoke on a bed much harder and narrower than I was accustomed. Rolling over to seek out a clock, I found myself face to spine with a pile of books on the nightstand. _Pygmalion_ was sandwiched between some volume titled _Tractatus de Intellectus Emendatione_ and _Prufrock and Other Observations._ Hiding on the bottom, as if ashamed of itself, was a copy of Rosie M. Banks's latest romance. I took a few moments to put two and two together, but when I added up to four, so to speak, a wave of euphoria swept over me. Clearly, this was Jeeves's room, and those were Jeeves's books, for who else of my acquaintance would read something with so ponderous a name as _Tractatus de Intellectus Emendatione._

If this was Jeeves's room, my thoughts progressed, I must be in Jeeves's bed, and if I was in Jeeves's bed, then that must mean that the actions of last night were not the product of my unconscious teasing me with vivid, wishful dreams. The only dark spot on this otherwise boomps-a-daisy morning was the lack of Jeeves himself in the room. No sooner did I have the thought than Jeeves entered with a breakfast tray balanced on his hand.

"That is remarkable, Jeeves!"

"Sir?"

"The way you seem to know exactly what I want the very instant I think it."

"I endeavour to give satisfaction, sir."

His words recalled the night before; he seemed to be able to read my mind then, too. My cheeks warmed at the thought. Jeeves must have divined the source of my blush, for he smirked most wickedly as he laid the tray upon my lap. I dug into my eggs and b. with enthusiasm. "How long have you been up?"

"Roughly three hours. The late night caused me to sleep through more of the morning than is my usual habit."

"Three hours! That's practically the crack of dawn!"

"In point of fact, sir, at this time of year, sunrise is at approximately quarter after five."

"Well, eight in the ack emma seems like the crack of dawn to me. I don't suppose you could sleep longer in the future? It would be dashed pleasant to wake up next to you."

"I'm afraid it is quite impossible, sir."

"Oh. Well, I suppose I could wake up earlier, then." The offer was sincere, although I shuddered at the horror of it. There are some hours of the day that man was simply not meant to see, but I would do it if Jeeves wanted it, no matter how torturous it would be.

"If that is what you desire. Otherwise, I see no reason why we cannot continue in our accustomed schedules. They seemed to work well for us in the past."

"You have a point," I said. "I don't suppose we could sleep in my bed next time, though. There's a good deal more room. There were times last night that I thought that I'd fall right off if you weren't holding on to me."

"That would be agreeable," Jeeves answered. "What suit shall I lay out for you, sir?"

I frowned in thought. "Do I have anything on the schedule aside from helping to outsmart the nefarious villain who kidnapped me?"

"Lady Worplesdon is expecting you for lunch at one."

"Aunt Agatha?" My mood dropped like a U-boat. "Can't we tell her I was kidnapped? Surely an experience like that is enough to get a reprieve from all fire-breathing aunts for at least a week."

"She enquired into your whereabouts while you were missing. I told her that you were surveying lots with a contractor, and then paying a visit to Brinkley Court. It seemed the wisest course of action."

"Surveying lots? Why would I be surveying lots?"

Jeeves filled me in on the whole deception--namely that I was intending to build a home for my soon-to-be wife and children. I felt a thread of panic just thinking about the thing.

"What am I going to tell Aunt Agatha?" I asked. "She thinks I'm going to be proposing to some girl any day now."

"Tell her that you proposed this morning and were rebuffed. It would help if you were to intimate that the young lady in question were a waitress or perhaps a chorus girl."

"I see what you're getting at. She'll be so relieved that I'm not getting hooked to some waitress that she'll be glad that my proposal was a bum deal."

"Exactly."

"Jeeves, you're brilliant."

"Thank you, sir."

I took a sip of joyful tea. My relaxing breakfast was interrupted, however, by the sound of some sort of banging emanating from the sitting room. I had no idea what could be causing the noise, but since Jeeves was here and I was here, I had some idea of whom. "I take it our guests are up and about?"

A lesser man would have rolled his eyes, but Jeeves expressed his dismay in a much more subtle fashion, with a mere lowering of his eyelids and twitch of his mouth. "Mr. Holmes has been awake for some hours now."

"Oh dear."

"Indeed, sir."

"Some people just don't know when to settle down, smell the roses, take it slow."

Jeeves expression brightened. "He has, however, been useful in clearing out some space in your wardrobe."

"What?" I said with alarm.

"This morning he approached me with a request for any cast-off clothes we could spare. He explained that he intended to carry out some undercover reconnaissance and needed clothing with which to construct a few disguises. I told him that I would be happy to accommodate him."

My alarm grew to a panic and sprouted wings, ready to fly into complete horror. I pushed the breakfast tray aside, leapt from the bed, hurriedly put on my pyjamas, and rushed to the sitting room, hardly noticing or caring how it would look to have a pyjama-ed Wooster emerging from Jeeves's bedroom.

Holmes was there, as expected, doing unspeakably cruel things to my cobalt blue trilby. Already it looked as though it had been trampled by horses, washed in a mud puddle, and used as a flowerpot. Now, as if the poor thing hadn't suffered enough, Holmes was subjecting it to a violent beating with my cane. My shoulders slumped. I was too late to save it; my hat was doomed.

I crossed the sitting room, meandering widely around Holmes to avoid suffering the same sort of beating that he was inflicting on the trilby, and entered my bedroom, anxious to see what clothes Jeeves and Holmes had seen fit to leave me. The damage was not as bad as I'd feared, though it was certainly bad enough. Gone were my cheerful yellow and green tie, my apricot-coloured shirt, and brass-buttoned jacket.

Jeeves drifted in. "I think the grey pinstripe would be an excellent choice for today, sir."

Well, after seeing all my favourite clothes torn apart in so a treacherous a manner, I was not about to give in to Jeeves's every sartorial whim. "No. I'm going to wear the navy. And don't even think of trying to dissuade me. I know that it's difficult, for we are both men of strong will and do not like to let go of things easily--"

There was a snort of derision from the doorway. I turned to see Holmes leaning on the doorframe. "Mr. Wooster, you've many admirable qualities, I'm sure, but you've about as much strength of will as a jelly." With that astonishing statement he turned to Jeeves and said, "I need a hat brush and a bit of beeswax," and left again as quickly as he'd come. Jeeves closed the door to prevent any more interruptions.

My mouth opened and shut many times before I could get any words out. "Why, of all the...Jeeves! You don't agree with him, do you?"

"It is not my place to say, sir."

"Dash it all, of course it's your place to say! You're not just my valet now. In truth, you haven't been for a long time, long before last night."

"I think the navy would be a splendid choice, sir."

Now I thought he was just humouring me, and I wouldn't have that. "I've changed my mind. I want to wear the grey pinstripe."

"Very good, sir."

Jeeves laid out the grey pinstripe suit while I stepped out of my pyjamas, feeling quite smug about having won that argument and proving to myself and to Jeeves that no matter how much I loved him, I was still my own man.

By the time I'd dressed and emerged from my room, Holmes was finished with his brutal assault on my hat and now appeared engaged in the nigh impossible task of setting it back to rights. Dr. Watson had joined him in the sitting room. Jeeves glided over to where Watson sat.

"Would you like some tea and breakfast, sir?"

Watson replied, "Breakfast would be splendid, but no tea, please." He met Holmes's eyes and raised his voice. "I've had quite enough of tea for a while."

Jeeves raised an eyebrow one eighth of an inch and biffed off to the kitchen. I was left feeling like I'd missed something, like someone forgot to give Bertram the secret code, which would unlock the meaning of the conversation. "I hardly thought it was possible to have too much tea. Well, I suppose one could." I chuckled as a memory drifted up to the forefront of my mind. "Biffy--he's one of my chums at the Drones Club--once drank ten cups of strong tea in immediate succession on a dare. He was miserable for a few hours and shaking like a leaf, but had forgotten clean about it by the next day. Of course, Biffy can't remember his own name one day to the next, so that's really not surprising. But as for just getting tired of tea, I for one have never heard of it. No one to my knowledge has ever said, 'Blast it, tea with breakfast again? I won't stand for it anymore.' Well, not until now, at least."

Watson coughed. "It's not exactly like that."

"Watson is making a needlessly dramatic gesture to express his feelings on a certain private matter," Holmes explained acerbically.

"Oh," I said, and left it at that. If they were going to be at odds again, then I would stay well out of it.

There was a long and awkward silence, broken only by the sound of Holmes tearing a small rip in the seam out of one of the sleeves of my brass-buttoned jacket. More to fill the silence than curiosity, I asked, "So, what sort of disguise are you making?"

"A man with little money, but pretensions of grandeur, and poor taste. Just the sort of person who lingers in the places Roberson frequents." Holmes continued, "The fine quality of clothes indicate the pretensions of wealth, but the clothes will have the appearance of being used cast-offs, a bit tatty, and not tailored to his form. Thus, he has little money himself but would like people to think that he does. The lack of taste--"

Watson interrupted before Holmes could finish, "Do you get the newspaper, Mr Wooster? I wouldn't mind catching up on what's happened in the world these past few days."

I was grateful for the change of subject, for I had the rummy feeling that I wouldn't have liked where the prior conversation was going. "Jeeves always brings in the paper with my breakfast tray. If you'll hang on just a tick, I'll go get it." I instinctively marched towards my room before I remembered that I'd abandoned my breakfast in Jeeves's room, and he'd probably already cleared it away. I about-faced and popped into the kitchen to ask Jeeves about the paper's whereabouts. He directed me to my breakfast tray, which was sitting on the kitchen table. I expressed my thanks, snatched up the paper, and wandered back to the sitting room, skimming over the headlines as I entered. One in particular caught my eye.

"Oh, look! You're in the paper, see?" I pointed to the headline SCOTLAND YARD INVESTIGATES THEFT OF PRICELESS ANTIQUITIES.

Just as I was about to start reading, Holmes leapt up and snatched the paper from my hands. He surveyed the front page before handing the paper over to Watson. "If you please, my dear Watson."

Watson cleared his throat, and then recited:

_Yesterday morning a break-in was discovered at the house of Sir Ronald de Glanville in Highgate. A thorough search of the house was conducted, during the course of which it was found that the burglars had absconded with the famous Jewels of Tarpeia, estimated to be worth over twenty thousand pounds. No other valuables were missing from the house._

Lady Elizabeth de Glanville's grandfather, the noted explorer and archaeologist Sir Arthur Grainger, discovered The Jewels of Tarpeia in the Tuscany region of Italy in 1847.

Watson interrupted his narrative, "It then goes on to talk about the history of the jewels, and a bit of nonsense about a curse��""

"A curse?" I said, with some apprehension. I'd not touched the jewels myself, but they'd been brought into my home and used to ransom my person. I might very well fall into the sphere of their malevolent influence.

"It's nothing much; merely that all those who touch the jewels will either commit a grave betrayal or have one committed upon them. Then it gives some lurid details of romantic affairs as evidence. Ah, here we are, back to the investigation." He continued.

_The investigation is being carried out by Detective Inspector James Cinwell of Scotland Yard, who recently received much acclaim for his sharp deductions and swift action in the Streatham murders case. "It was a clean job," the Inspector revealed during yesterday's interview. "Either a seasoned professional, or someone who has a great deal of knowledge of crime and the criminal method at his disposal." When asked if he had any leads on a suspect, the Inspector replied, "I'm not at liberty to give out names at this time."_

"Then it concludes with a summary of some of Inspector Cinwell's successes," Watson finished. "Well, Holmes, what do you think? Are we in any danger from this Inspector Cinwell?"

Holmes shook his head. "I shouldn't think so. His record��"what little I know of it��"is erratic, sometimes brilliant, at other times amazingly inept. This particular crime is remarkably commonplace, no different from the actions of any other contemptible sneak-thief," he said bitingly. "We left no fingerprints to trace, no marks, save our footsteps in the grass outside the window. Even if he notices those��"and given the observational skills of the average Scotland Yard detective he may very well not��"he could hardly investigate the shoes of seven million Londoners, hoping he will find a match."

"Yes, I suppose you're right. Still, that phrase, what was it? 'A great deal of knowledge of crime and the criminal method.' It gives me chills."

"It's a very basic bit of deduction. The crime was well done, ergo, the criminal had either experience or knowledge. Granted, it is remarkable to see anything resembling deductive reasoning from the official police, but even they can't be entirely hopeless all the time."

I cleared my throat in what I'd intended to be an elegant, Jeeves-like manner, but instead of sounding like the subtle cough of a grazing thoroughbred, it came out more like the wheeze of an asthmatic pony. Clearly, it was an acquired skill. All the same, it had the desired effect of breaking up the conversation so that I could speak.

"Investigations and such aside, is there anything on the table today? That is to say, will my indispensable services be needed for the next few hours? Jeeves tells me I've got an appointment with the dreaded Aunt Agatha, and I've a mind to stop by my club to get myself a fortifying drink and give the lads there a 'What ho.'"

"Yes, yes," Holmes gave a dismissive wave. "Remember, however, not to say a word to anyone about me or Roberson or anything that has happened."

"Right ho. Jeeves has already given me the whole ala...ali...dash it all, Jeeves, what's the word? Something Latin, means you're in one place instead of another."

"Alibi, sir."

"Yes, that's the one. Alibi. Jeeves has already given me the alibi of the viewing of lots and the failed marriage proposal. I have everything well in hand."

With my good-byes said, Jeeves handed me my stick and hat--a staid grey fedora since my cheerful, cobalt blue trilby had been so recklessly commandeered--and off I went. It was a short and agreeable walk to the Drones Club. A mild breeze blew, sending puffy white clouds scattering over the sun, rendering the world bright and warm one minute and tenebrous the next.

The club was loud and boisterous as usual, and for a moment it seemed difficult to believe that so much could have happened in my life these past few days, that so much could change and yet the Drones could remain exactly the same as ever. I ducked to avoid being conked in the head with a dinner roll and made my way to the bar where I saw a familiar form sitting.

"Tuppy, old chap, long time no see." I sat down beside him.

"Bertie! Where have you been, old bean!"

Tuppy knew me too well to ever believe that I intended to marry a chorus girl, so I went for the second half of Jeeves's fib. "Oh, here and there. I visited Brinkley Court. Aunt Dahlia had a problem come up that could only be solved through the wits and wisdom of yours truly."

"No you didn't."

"Didn't I?"

"No. I received a telegram from your cousin Angela not three hours ago telling me how frightfully boring it's been these past few days."

"Well, I didn't say the problem was an exciting one." Inspiration struck. "In fact, once I arrived and set my mind to work, the whole thing cleared up in no time. Angela probably never even noticed that there was a problem, thanks to my quick thinking."

"You mean Jeeves's quick thinking, I'm sure."

It went without saying that Jeeves went with me on this fictitious journey. "Jeeves may have offered a crumb or two of advice."

"A crumb. More like a whole cake."

"A slice," I countered. "But it was Bertram Wooster who carried out the deed."

I summoned the bar tender. Although few things were more deserving of a fortifying drink than an incipient meeting with Aunt Agatha, who was the very worst sort of aunt, the sort who, while gnashing teeth and breathing fire, would harangue long and wide about one's manner, lifestyle, and overall comportment, I decided against it. If the aged relative caught one whiff of alcohol on the breath, I'd really be in for it and with Aunt Agatha that was saying something. So it was with regret that chose to imbibe nothing stronger than a glass of orange juice, as if I were Gussie Fink-Nottle, the most hopeless poop of my acquaintance.

Tuppy meanwhile grumbled on for a bit about Angela, working himself into a passion about the breezy tone of her telegram. "It's like she could take me or leave me, all the same to her. Well, I don't need to put up with it. There are other girls who would be thrilled to be my fiancée, none of this 'Don't bother coming to visit this weekend; I'll be busy entertaining guests' rot. I should tell her that if she feels that way, she should just call the whole wedding off."

I recognized my cue. "You don't mean that. You love Angela, after all. And she, you."

"Hah!"

"'Hah?' What you mean by 'hah?'"

"I mean 'hah!'" Thus encouraged, he ranted on about Angela's faults. I heard none of it. Here in the Drones Club, nothing had changed, and yet for me everything was different. I had looked down the barrel of a gun. I had kissed and more than kissed Jeeves. A warm feeling spread through my chest and I smiled what was, I confess, probably a soppy sort of smile, but love does strange things to a man, making him contemplate doing outrageous things like writing poetry dedicated to his beloved's beautiful azure eyes. Tuppy, fixated on his own problems, noticed neither my lack of response nor my drippy expression.

I finished my juice and stood, clapping Tuppy on the shoulder. "Cheer up, old man. If you love each other, and it was meant to be, you'll find a way through all adversities. Something something _amor_, you know."

Tuppy's broad face crinkled in confusion. "What are you blathering about, Bertie?"

I waved a hand, magnanimously ignoring his hostile tone, for I was in too good a mood to let it be spoilt. "Can't stay and chat, I'm afraid. I'm expected for lunch with Aunt Agatha. Toodle-pip! And good luck with Angela."

Tuppy gave a desultory wave and returned to his drink while I skipped out of the club. The walk wasn't long, although with each step I felt my feet growing heavier and heavier as reluctance clamped its iron chains about my ankles. I arrived at the hotel where my aged relation was staying sooner than I'd hoped and was immediately ushered into the dining room.

Aunt Agatha was perched at one end of a long table, like a vulture on a dry branch of a dead oak tree. I claimed the seat to her right, sitting at the very edge of the chair, ready to make a break for it at first opportunity. Lunch was already set out and awaited only my arrival.

"What-ho, old relation!" I said, plastering a polite smile on my face as I reached for the fork. Family is family, after all, and it wouldn't do to be rude.

"How many times must I ask you to speak like a civilized person, Bertie?"

"Oh, sorry," I avoided meeting her disapproving gaze. I cleared my throat and began again. "How do you do, Aunt Agatha?"

"Abysmal. There are tradesmen running about the house everywhere, wreaking havoc, tracking mud about the floors. It is an utter mess. I shall be extending my stay here until they finish the job and leave."

"Tradesmen? Did a pipe break?"

"Nothing of the sort. Percy and I decided to have a new burglar alarm installed, on account of the wretched goings on."

"Goings on?" At first I couldn't fathom to what she was referring, news of the outside world having passed me by for those few days I was Roberson's guest, but the reference to a burglar alarm put my mind on the right track. "Oh, you mean the theft of the Jewels of Whatsit."

"Of course I mean the theft!" She sighed piteously. "A priceless heirloom stolen right from the de Glanville home. What is this country coming to?"

"Well I--"

"Hush, Bertie. Whatever idiotic thing you were going to say, refrain from saying it."

I nodded silently and took another bite, thinking of one of Jeeves's little quips, something about discretion being the better part of valour.

"Lady Elizabeth is naturally distraught," Aunt Agatha continued. "The thieves must have passed right by her bedroom door! She could have been murdered in her sleep!"

"I don't think--"

"Don't interrupt. It's people like you who are the cause of this."

I choked on my fish. "Me?" I squeaked out, wondering if Aunt Agatha had somehow divined my role in the affair.

"Yes, you. If you and your hooligan friends weren't off stealing policemen's helmets and swimming in public fountains and engaging in other such nonsense, the police wouldn't be wasting their time dealing with the likes of you and letting hardened criminals like these jewel thieves dance about England."

I blinked away the peculiar image of Holmes and Watson doing a tango in Berkeley Square. "Dancing is not the word I would--"

"Quiet, Bertie, I'm trying to make a point that you would do well to listen to."

I nodded, but said nothing. Aunt Agatha spoke, "This recent yearning of yours to settle down in a house and raise a family is all well and good, but frankly, I don't trust you to pick out a tie, much less a wife. You need someone of strong will and good character to temper your wayward manner, someone who will convince you to make something of yourself."

I nodded again, although it was hesitant and convulsive, a nod offered more out of self-preservation than agreement.

Aunt Agatha continued, "Jeeves informed me that you have been stepping out with a girl and were planning to propose." There was a grim silence, the sort of silence that comes just before the executioner's axe falls. "Who is she?"

I thought of Jeeves and his advice, namely, to tell Aunt Agatha that I'd asked the filly but she refused and wedding bells would not be ringing. The image of Jeeves, however, called to mind the declarations of the previous night. For the second time that day, inspiration came upon me. Clearly, the Muse of Prevaricating-to-friends-and-relations was with me today. Thus, I leapt in with both feet to weave my story.

"A servant," I said.

"A servant?" Aunt Agatha echoed in disgust.

"Yes. But this person is quite the smartest, cleverest, most attractive domestic that ever there was. I declared my love last night and to my good fortune, my regard was returned."

"Bertram Wilberforce Wooster," she roared. I quailed in my seat. It was not often that Aunt Agatha felt need to resort to middle names. "Of all the absurd, cracked-headed things you've done in your life, and there have been more than can be counted, this is the worst!"

"Really?" I mused that she must be more ignorant of the antics of the last few years than I'd thought to warrant making such a statement. Certainly, stealing Sir Watkyn Bassett's cow creamer was a far wilder endeavour than courting a servant. Or pretending to be Rosie M. Banks, romance author extraordinaire, surely deserved more of a raised eyebrow than a cross-class understanding.

"I don't care how charming you think she is. You will break off the affair immediately."

"I can't do that," I retorted. "I have a Code. It would be a breach of promise."

"You've ended engagements in the past. More than can be counted."

"Well, technically, _I_ didn't end them; the female half of the contract always let me off the hook."

Aunt Agatha's wrinkles sagged in a fierce frown. "I know that you have ways of slipping out of engagements when it suits you. Don't think I haven't noticed. Either get her to end it or do it yourself. It doesn't matter which, so long as there is no marriage. Give her fifty pounds to keep her quiet and send her on her way."

"If such is your will, aged aunt, I can promise you that there will be no wedding." I let that sink in, feeling very pleased with myself. As much as I might wish to marry Jeeves before God and all the rest, we'd have to settle for a gentlemen's agreement.

I was happier than lunch with Aunt Agatha had ever before been known to warrant. The supposed close brush with the horror of having a maidservant for a niece-in-law would, with luck, prevent my aunt from bringing up the dreaded "m" word for a while. Perhaps I would get a nice little house after all, and Jeeves would ensure that it remained wife-free. We would then live out our days in conjugal bliss. Not even Aunt Agatha could spoil the joy such daydreams inspired.

And so the luncheon passed without further grief. Nevertheless, I was pleased when I was dismissed. Even for one in the best of moods, Aunt Agatha's company is a bitter pill to swallow, and furthermore, I was eager to return home to Jeeves. I bought a bottle of Château d'Yquem on the way home and had some notion of presenting it to him and then inviting him to go take in a show if there was nothing interesting happening on the Roberson front.

Instead, I returned to mayhem. The front door was open and four bobbies were packed in my sitting room. An inspector with grizzled hair, a thin, wolfish sort of face, and clad in a rumpled suit was putting Dr. Watson in handcuffs while Jeeves attempted to curb the madness.

"What the devil is going on?" I asked, setting the wine on the sideboard.

The inspector passed the manacled Dr. Watson into the care of a police sergeant. He approached me with a slow and steady tread. "My name is Inspector Cinwell, Scotland Yard. You must be Mr. Wooster," he spoke in a flat and jaded tone. "Were you aware that you were harbouring a dangerous criminal?"

"Harbouring a--" I chuckled in confusion. "You must be joking. Dr. Watson? A dangerous criminal? Why, he's the kindest, most decent chap I've ever met."

"You've been taken in, I'm afraid. The good doctor here is a master thief."

"Master thief?"

"He's under arrest for breaking into the de Glanville residence and stealing the famous Jewels of Tarpeia."

I sputtered. "But that's--How--? What about Mr. Holmes?"

Cinwell raised his brows in puzzled inquiry. "What about him?"

"Is he in trouble, too?" If Watson, who only accompanied Holmes on the heist was headed for the magistrate, then it seemed reasonable to me to assume that he who planned and carried out the bulk of the crime would likewise be facing the judge's bench. Inspector Cinwell's reply was therefore baffling.

"Mr. Holmes is an old friend of the police," the inspector said without a trace of irony��"a little too sincere, if you know what I mean. "He can hardly be blamed if his colleague strayed from the straight and narrow. Now if you'll excuse me, Mr. Wooster, I really must get on with my job. We may have questions for you later, so don't leave town."

The police began to drag Watson from the room. All remaining traces of my earlier joy vanished utterly when I saw the hopeless and despairing look on his face. As he passed by, he muttered to me, "Tell Holmes what happened."

Soft though his words were they were not soft enough to escape the sharp hearing of Inspector Cinwell. He stood before me and said, "Yes, by all means, Mr. Wooster, tell Holmes what happened. Leave out no detail, no matter how unimportant." He fixed me with a brief but piercing gaze from his heavy-lidded, pale eyes and a chill trickled down my spine like drops of water sliding down a melting icicle. With that, he tipped his hat and left, leaving the flat quiet and empty but for Jeeves and me.

Jeeves poured me a stiff one before I even needed to ask. I gulped it down without pause. Despite the fact that the arrest had just happened before my very eyes, I couldn't imagine how it could have come to pass. I expressed my uncertainty to Jeeves.

"How did they know? Holmes said they left no clues behind, and if anyone would know about clues, you'd think it would be Sherlock Holmes."

"It is more troubling than that, sir. Consider, even if some sort of clue were found that incriminated Dr. Watson, who, other than you or I would know that he was temporarily residing here. It should have taken many days for the police to track Dr. Watson down, not hours."

When the answer came to me, my jaw dropped. "Good heavens! I say, Jeeves, good heavens! You think that Roberson put the police on Dr. Watson's scent?"

"Holmes himself intimated that Roberson had connections in law enforcement whom he bribed to escape capital punishment. It would appear that at least some of those connections are still in place."

"So Roberson arranged for Watson to be arrested?"

"I think it likely, sir."

"But why not Holmes while he was at it? Why all that 'friend of the police' whatsit?"

"If Roberson's prior _modus operandi_ is any evidence, I would surmise that Roberson wishes to make another exchange and has made Dr. Watson his new hostage."

I lit a gasper and paced up and down the sitting room. Things were getting decidedly beyond rummy and all the way towards disastrous. Every time one of us turned around, there was Roberson, chipping away at our fortifications. We needed a plan.

"Jeeves, we need a plan."

"I concur. There's little we can do, however, until Mr. Holmes arrives."

"Where is he?"

"He left shortly after you did to gather information on Roberson. He has not yet returned."

"He's going to blow his lid when he finds out what's happened. I know I would if it were you who was locked up." I yearned to put my hand on Jeeves's shoulder, to feel his strong arm underneath my palm and gain reassurance from it, but the whole notion was so awkward now in the bright mid-afternoon and in the relative public of the sitting room. What happened under the fire of ardour in the bedroom was one thing but I wasn't sure that Jeeves would approve of such casual touches in the daylight. I'd crossed the line between master and valet last night, and now when I turned around and looked back, I couldn't be sure where it was anymore, what was appropriate and what was not.

I settled for standing close enough to him that my sleeve brushed against his. He did not object to my invasion of his space; in fact, he reached out and ran his fingers down my lapels, as if straightening them out, even though I knew with some certainty that they were in no need of adjustment. I, heartened by this action, brushed a mote of non-existent dust from Jeeves's impeccable shoulder with a slow and firm stroke. He did not draw away or seem impatient with my touch, and my heart rallied at the novelty of touching Jeeves in my sitting room in such an intimate manner. A speck of the hopelessness which had gripped me broke off and drifted away, leaving my mind just a little bit lighter. Thus bolstered, I waited for Holmes's return and prepared myself for the unenviable task of breaking the news to him.

When Holmes arrived, he swept into my quiet flat like a whirlwind, bringing chaos to Jeeves's order, tossing scuffed cobalt blue hat on the sofa and frayed jacket over the lampshade. He spoke quickly and wandered the room incessantly, not pausing even while lighting up a cigarette.

"Roberson has been busy. He's re-established many of his old contacts--those who aren't dead or in prison--and has been forging new connections with the local gangs near the docks. It all suggests that he has already started up his old business again. Indeed, I suspect that, although it may have slowed after his arrest, it never entirely died. He had subordinates to look after his legitimate shipping interests while incarcerated; in all likelihood, he had similar arrangements made for his illegitimate merchandise." The last word of Holmes's speech was spoken with a bitter curl of his lip. He stopped and looked at us for the first time since he'd entered. A frown deepened the hollows of his face and I quailed. He asked, "Where's Watson?"

I shuffled my feet. "Well, you see, the police were here when I returned��"returned from my visit to Aunt Agatha, if you recall whom I was going to visit. After I visited her." I licked my lips and rocked on my heels, putting off saying what needed to be said. Holmes's icy gaze, which seemed to drop by degrees with each word I spoke, wasn't making my difficult task any easier. "Everything seemed oojah-cum-spiff when I left the house, what? Not a trouble to be seen in the immediate future. So you can imagine my surprise when I come home to find an invasion in progress, bobbies every which where and a Scotland Yard inspector and the works. And Dr. Watson there right in the middle of the commotion. He--that is to say, Dr. Watson--he was...in a state of...the process of being..." I paused, mouth open, hoping the necessary words would make themselves known, but no sound emerged. Jeeves, as always, came to my rescue.

"Dr. Watson was arrested, sir," Jeeves said.

I watched Holmes with the uncomfortable look a rabbit might give upon finding himself face to face with a lean and hungry fox, that is to say, my shoulders hunched and I braced myself for whatever sort of scathing attack might be forthcoming. I could see the muscles of Holmes's jaw roll under the skin of his thin face as his teeth clenched.

"Tell me what happened, and omit no detail, no matter how trivial it may seem to you."

I shivered at the feeling of _déjà vu_\--or would it be _déjà entendu _\--that came over me. "That's exactly what he said! Inspector Cinwell, he said that I was to tell you what happened and spare no detail."

Holmes's mien, which had been grim before, became downright sepulchral. "Tell me," he repeated, his voice flat and low. I related the story as precisely as I could remember it, Jeeves filling in details now and again. Holmes was utterly still and silent throughout. His cigarette burnt down, forgotten, until it singed his fingers, and even then he showed little distress, merely flicking the offending stub into a nearby brandy snifter. When I'd finished my tale, I did not move or speak, waiting for Jeeves or Holmes or someone to come up with a fruity scheme to break Watson out of gaol, a file-baked-in-the-cake sort of deal or well-placed explosives by the wall, for we could not in good conscience simply leave him to his fate.

Jeeves did not disappoint. "We would be best served by first discovering what sort of evidence they have against Dr. Watson. If it is merely circumstantial--"

Whereas I was hanging on Jeeves's every word, as sure of his good sense and acumen as I am sure that the sun rises in the east, Holmes harboured no such appreciation. Retrieving neither hat nor jacket, he left the flat without a word.


	10. The Long Arm of the Law

_From the pen of Dr. John H. Watson: In which there are new enemies and old friends._

Chapter 10: The Long Arm of the Law

The police escorted me to the station in grim silence and led me to a small room, windowless and containing no more than a plain, wooden table and a few chairs. I was pushed down into one chair, and Inspector Cinwell sat opposite. Then the constables departed and we were alone. Cinwell stared at me from across the table, silent. If this was meant to be an interrogation it was like none I had ever seen; he appeared completely uninterested in asking any questions.

The whole situation, from arrest to the present, was highly irregular. I had to get answers, but I must also tread carefully, for however they had found evidence of my involvement in the theft, Holmes was still free, and I had no wish to incriminate him. I began with the most innocuous and straightforward question I could think of. "Why am I here?" I asked.

"The theft of Lady Elizabeth's jewels," Cinwell replied in his soft, dead tone. "As I informed you when I arrested you."

"Yes, but what's the evidence? Why do you think I'm behind the theft?" I smiled a self-deprecating smile. "I'm not exactly anyone's idea of a cat burglar."

"I'm sure your lawyer will tell you in due course."

"Then why not tell me now?"

Cinwell leaned back in his chair. "There are--how would the great Mr. Holmes put it? Four different indications that you were present in that house on the night of the burglary, but one that is most damning."

"And what is that?"

"A decorative fob, which was found in the grass. It's locked away in the evidence room, but I'm sure you'll recognize it by the description. Gold, round, with the words _Primum non nocere_ on the front and engraved on the back with the initials JHW. We lifted a few prints from it, which I'm sure we will soon confirm are yours."

As Cinwell finished his description, I realized that my mouth was gaping open and I closed it with a snap. I was indeed familiar with the object in question; however, "I haven't worn that in years! Decades! I keep it locked in my writing desk back in Sussex."

"Tell that to the examining magistrate."

The situation was becoming stranger and stranger by the minute. I knew with absolute certainty that I had not worn the decorative fob on that night, which left me with one of two equally unpleasant alternatives. Either Inspector Cinwell was lying about his possession of the fob, opening the question of why he would do such a thing, and even more perplexing, how he would come to possess such detail about a fob that hadn't seen the light of day since 1894, or alternatively, he _did_ have the fob, in which case someone broke into the house in Sussex and took it for the sole purpose of using it as evidence against me. Neither option was comforting.

"Why haven't you taken me to a cell yet?"

"I thought you might like to confess to the crime."

"I would not." Although I could not deduce what precisely was going on, it was too convenient to be a coincidence, which led me to only one conclusion: Roberson. The jagged sensation of imminent danger settled in my bones and under my skin. Whence this danger came and in what form, I did not know, but Holmes surely would. I had to put my trust in him. In the meantime, I would discover whatever I was able. I wished, not for the first time, that I had Holmes's talent for observation and deception. "Why would I confess to a crime I did not commit?"

Cinwell ignored my protestations of innocence, as I expected. "It would go best for you if you confessed. It really would. If you go before the summary court, the magistrate will be more lenient."

"I did not do it."

"The evidence suggests otherwise."

I decided to push. "The evidence was forged. Holmes will be able to prove it."

Cinwell replied, "I suspect Mr. Holmes will have other problems." Cinwell's expression, calm and uncaring, chilled me as much as his words did.

"Did Roberson pay you?"

"Roberson? I know no one called Roberson," Cinwell said. He could be lying, of course, or he could be just as easily working through a middleman, in which case his ignorance would be genuine.

"Marcus Roberson is one of the foulest criminals in London. I'm sure you could look up his file if you wanted the details, but I'm willing to paint you a picture in the broadest strokes. Roberson is a man who profits off the misery of others. He preys on the weak. He takes the most vulnerable, the most defenceless persons of society and ships them overseas to sell in Chicago brothels. He organizes kidnapping, rape, and murder. That is the man you're protecting by keeping me here. That is the man who will be running free in London until Holmes and I stop him."

It was difficult to tell in the glaring light, Cinwell's deep set eyes half-hidden in shadow, but I thought a saw some emotion skim across his features for the first time, a trace of something grey and desolate. I dared to hope that it was a flicker of remorse, or a fleck of shame. Imagined or not, it gave me my first opening since the manacles had been placed on my wrists.

I leaned forward, resting my cuffed hands on the desk between us and gave him my most earnest look. "Inspector," I said softly. "We both know that I didn't drop that fob. I for one am very interested in how it came to be there. Now, you have a chance to work with Sherlock Holmes instead of against him. Let me go. Come with me and tell Holmes everything you know and we'll stop whoever's behind this."

Inspector Cinwell's face became hard and set the moment I spoke, and whatever expression it was that I had seen or thought I saw was gone without a trace. A quick, bitter smile flashed across Cinwell's features. "This case goes higher up than me, Doctor. I just follow orders."

"Whose orders?" I asked. Cinwell did not answer, though his gaze remained fixed on mine. "Inspector, whose orders?"

He looked away, his lips curling. "I think you're a bit confused about how these interrogations are supposed to be run. It's the police who ask the questions, you see, and the suspect who answers."

My shoulders slumped as I sighed. "I have nothing to say."

A long stretch of silence passed. "In that case, I'll take you to your cell. If you change your mind, the guard will know where to find me." He rapped on the door and two constables entered. Holding my arms firmly enough to bruise, they led me first to the custody officer to strip me of personal belongings, then down a narrow and ill-lit passage until we reached a small cell at the far end.

The cell, once unlocked, revealed a prior occupant. A man, dishevelled and probably drunk if the redness of his nose and stream of bilious vomit on the floor was any indication, sprawled across the floor. This man was dragged from the cell with little effort but much noise, as the drunkard hollered and swore at the constables. When he was gone, I was established in his place, my only access to the outside world one tiny, barred window set high in the door.

Sweat and bile fouled the air but the water pitcher was clean enough, and, I mused, I had occupied filthier places in the course of my long and varied career. I made my way to the bench on the far wall, skirting the malodorous puddle on the floor, and laid myself down. Patience was one of my meagre supply of virtues, one often employed in the course of my life with Holmes. This virtue I practiced again, shrouding myself in calm so not to be rattled or flustered by anything that might come my way. Thus the hours passed by.

The guards walked up and down the hall at regular intervals, so I had long ceased noting their heavy tread upon the wooden floor. Therefore, the creak of the floorboards outside my door did not register as anything remarkable and I did not realize that I was about to be intruded upon until I heard the key scraping in the lock.

The door opened with a groan from its rusty hinges. The men standing on the threshold were backlit by the lamp in the hallway; nevertheless, I instantly recognized a certain tall and lanky silhouette.

"Holmes!" I exclaimed. My spirits rose at the sight of him. I sat up, but before I could gain my feet, Holmes had darted across the room and gripped my forearms in his hands, kneeling next to me on the bench.

"Watson." He scanned my figure. "You're looking well, all things considered."

The same could not be said for Holmes. He was hatless, his hair twisted and dishevelled by the wind, and he was only half-dressed in Mr. Wooster's ill-fitting cast offs. Most distressing of all were the cracked and eerie hollows deep in his grey eyes, like the hairline fractures of a shattered mirror. "Have you truly been letting yourself be seen in public like that, running about London in your shirtsleeves?" I teased, hoping to ease whatever dark self-recrimination was lurking within his heart. "At the very least you might have put on a jacket."

"I decided that, on the balance of things, that your arrest was rather more important than my sartorial propriety."

"As you can see, I've not suffered unduly." I took his hands in mine and added softly, "But I am glad you've come."

Holmes twisted on the bench to speak to Cinwell, who was watching with an impassive gaze. "May we have a few moments of privacy?"

"I can give you five minutes, no more. And you will have to be locked in."

Holmes nodded his assent and Inspector Cinwell departed, leaving us alone. It was a precarious sort of privacy, but I was grateful for it all the same.

"Holmes--"

"Watson, I'm so sorry. This should never have happened. I'm a fool for not anticipating it, a deplorable idiot." Holmes leapt to his feet and began to pace, three steps to the far wall and three back. "Do you know what evidence they have against you?"

"Cinwell said that he had four pieces of evidence, but he only spoke of one--my old fob, the one Mary gave me, was found in the grass, or so he said."

I did not need to say more. Holmes knew each and every one of my possessions, their history, location, and upkeep, as well as I did. "That is unsettling news," he said.

"I thought so as well."

"But not insurmountable," he continued as if I had not spoken. "I shall say that I was the one who dropped it. When the inspector returns, I'll confess to the crime. He need never know you were involved. And as I was the true instigator, my confession would be little more than a slight bending of the truth."

"You'll do no such thing," I said firmly. "I'm counting on you to get us both out of this. Heaven knows what I'd be able to do were our situations reversed."

"I'll not let you suffer unjustly for my mistakes."

"Stop blaming yourself!" I cried out. "No one can foretell the future, not even you. We couldn't have left Mr. Wooster at the mercy of that fiend. Every step you've taken has been logical and moral." I took a few breaths to calm my nerves. "Now please tell me what's going on."

"Roberson," he snarled.

"I had guessed as much. I was hoping you could provide a few more useful details."

"He has a least four hideaways established, all scattered about the East End. He's been rebuilding his criminal business, although the bulk of his efforts have been focused on me." Holmes smirked. "I suppose I should be flattered.

"He's made arrangements to travel to America in one week's time, for business, so we can assume that whatever plans he has for us, he expects them to have come to fruition by then. He's purchased a large quantity of chloral hydrate--undoubtedly for his lackeys to use to incapacitate their victims--also opiates, cocaine, and ergotamine. Unfortunately, he's done none of this personally and has left no tangible connection between himself and these criminal activities. Nevertheless, I'm on his trail now. I need hard evidence to bring to the police, and even then I must be careful to whom I present it. I was too trusting of the official force the first time, a mistake I do not intend to make again." He sat once more at my side and placed one hand on my knee, his sharp gaze softening, the fires of fervour for the hunt suddenly banked to a low and steady warmth. "I'll have you out of custody as soon as I can."

"Holmes," I placed my hands on either side of his face, as if I could impress my words upon his soul with my touch. "I want you to be careful. Don't behave with your usual frivolous recklessness."

He scoffed, "Watson--"

"I mean it. I know what you're like. You treat your body as an inconvenience and your life as a thing of little consequence. I won't allow you to destroy yourself for my sake. Don't take foolish risks. "

"My dear Watson, when have I ever been less than the soul of prudence?"

"Would you like me to list each occurrence individually, or by category?"

His lips twitched in a hint of a smile. "Your point is made."

I longed more than anything to be back in Sussex then, in our lonely cottage overlooking a grey and endless sea, the drone of bees and the whisper of the surf the only sounds to disturb the stillness; no secrets, no fear, only Holmes and I and the quiet years of our remaining days under a broad and wild sky. Alas, it was not to be, and the rank smell and hundreds of tiny sounds of a busy police station served to remind me how utterly foolish it would be to kiss him as I wanted to.

"Holmes--" I did not know what I would say. A declaration of love would, as I knew from experience, receive only a disdainful sniff or an uncomfortable darting of eyes depending on his mood. In the end, to my dismay I was able to say nothing at all. While I dithered, the key to the cell turned. Holmes and I resumed a more respectable distance between ourselves before Inspector Cinwell entered.

"Mr. Holmes," Cinwell inclined his head respectfully. "I'm afraid your time is up."

Holmes stood but made no move towards the door. "I have a few minor questions to ask you before I go. First, where, precisely, was the fob found?"

Cinwell did not seem at all surprised that I had told Holmes about the fob. He replied with cool and professional precision. "It was found in the lawn of the de Glanville house, approximately ten yards from the window through which the thief entered."

"Were there any tracks?"

"The rain had washed most of the tracks away, but there was one partial footprint left in the mud just under the sill. It's not much, but it does confirm that the thief was a man who wore shoes with a slightly squared toe, much like Dr. Watson's there."

"What of the window? I understand that it was fitted with an electric burglar alarm. How was it disabled and where would a man of prosaic intelligence like Dr. Watson come by such specialized knowledge?"

"I assume you have books and monographs on every sort of modern security device, all of which he would have access to. Once the glass was breached, it was a simple enough matter for a man with steady hands and technical know-how to rewire the alarm, bypassing the circuit."

"Never assume," Holmes scolded. "No, no, your theory won't do. How do you explain the Doctor's motive? One does not go from a respectable member of society to jewel thief at a whim."

Cinwell replied. "Dr. Watson's country practice doesn't earn much income, isolated as it is. Furthermore--"

"Bah!" Holmes snarled. "That's a feeble motive. Watson has other, safer avenues of acquiring extra funds should he need them. He's in no danger of becoming destitute."

"'Safer avenues?' You mean yourself?"

"I would be more than willing to lend him money, if it came to that."

"Anything to help your friend. Laudable." Cinwell's eyes glittered. "But his financial troubles are only a part of it. The other part is you."

Holmes cocked his head. "Please, do explain your logic."

"Crimes of this sort aren't performed merely for money. If money were the sole object, the thief would have run off with the silver, not taken the incredibly risky action of breaking into Lady Elizabeth's safe. But you, Mr. Holmes, showed the good doctor what a truly masterful criminal can do and presented it as the grandest of games, the finest of adventures. Perhaps, on some subconscious level, he wanted to recreate the golden days, give you a splendid crime to engage your mighty powers of deduction. Ultimately, one never knows for certain what goes on in the criminal mind. Motive can never be more than hypothetical unless the doctor chooses to confess all. I merely deal in facts, and leave the rest to the prosecution."

I could hold my tongue no longer. "Your manner of dealing in so-called facts involves dealing them out to the highest bidder."

Holmes raised a hand to stem the tide of bitter words rising in me. "Watson, your ire, however understandable, does you no good." He addressed Cinwell once more, his eyes narrowed and darting, assessing every detail and every weakness. I knew from experience how unnerving Holmes's scouring looks could be, and Cinwell, tensing under the scrutiny, was not immune. "Inspector, I will hold you responsible for Watson's wellbeing until I secure his release."

"Doctor Watson will be perfectly safe here," Cinwell replied. "If he's sentenced to prison, however...Well, you of all people know exactly what sort of rough folk inhabit such places."

Holmes raised one brow in challenge. "He will not go to prison." Then he turned to me. "I promise you, whatever is required of me, I will not stop until your are safe."

His empty and rigid countenance troubled me. "Holmes--" I began, wishing for some way to warn him to be cautious, to remind him that he was mine, but Cinwell's presence forced me to swallow my words down like a bitter pill. I said simply, "Take care."

Then Holmes was gone and I was alone again. The hours passed in silence. Food, if one was generous enough to call the gruel served up at suppertime by a name as charitable as "food," was brought in by a young constable who looked at me as though I were potentially explosive. I tried to strike up a conversation with him, but to no avail. Shortly after the supper dishes were retrieved, the door opened and another unexpected visitor arrived. I stood to greet my guest.

"Lestrade! My God, is it good to see a friendly face!" It had been over a decade since I had last seen Inspector Lestrade, and I was amazed at how much thinner his hair was and how deeper were the creases around his eyes. I spared a moment to wonder how old I must appear to him in his turn. Despite the years since we'd last spoken, he had always been a friend and loyal ally, and I was heartened by his presence.

He shuffled over to shake my hand. "I came as soon as I could, but I'm afraid I can't be of much help. Retired now, you see. But I still have a few contacts, and when one of them told me that you'd been arrested, I thought to myself that something strange must be going on."

I shook my head. "It's no matter. I can handle a few days in lockup, and with Holmes on the case, I'm sure my stay won't stretch on any longer than that. You know how persistent he can be."

"Don't I ever," Lestrade chuckled.

"In the meantime, though, any news or information you have would be most welcome." There was no chair to offer, so I motioned him towards the hard bunk that served as a bed.

"I have made a few inquires," Lestrade said, accepting the proffered seat. I sat beside him. "The police business isn't what it used to be. There's hardly an honest man on the force anymore. And it's only gotten worse since Horwood was made Commissioner."

"I had got that impression already," I retorted. "Cinwell's not exactly hiding the fact that the evidence has been fixed."

"Yes, well Inspector Cinwell is as crooked as they come. He used to be a talented fellow, a quick thinker and sharp as a knife. A big admirer of your stories, too," Lestrade added. "But then he got greedy, or fell into debt, or...well, who knows, really. All I can say is that these days he works more for the criminals than the law."

"I'm sure Holmes can handle him."

Lestrade glanced about shiftily and lowered his voice. "If it were just Cinwell, you'd be right, but it's deeper than that. The examining magistrate you're scheduled to go before is a fellow named Sir Bradley, and it's an open secret that he accepts bribes. But the real man behind it all is Superintendent Adams. He's the one who set up your preliminary trial with Sir Bradley, and he's the one pulling the strings on Cinwell. Adams never liked Mr. Holmes. Used to make foul insinuations about your friend, if you follow."

My heart sank. I remembered Adams. He was the inspector who ostensibly had been in charge of the investigation that finally brought Roberson before the Crown Court. Holmes had taken on the case at the request of a private citizen and Adams has resented the intrusion. After bits of evidence began to vanish, Holmes ceased offering Adams even the slightest hints or clues, and carried out his investigation in secrecy. Still, he was not able to get the charge of murder to stick. I had rarely seen Holmes so furious. There was never any proof that Adams had obstructed justice, but Holmes's suspicions were clear enough.

"I don't know who you and Mr. Holmes offended this time," Lestrade paused, inviting an answer, but when I offered nothing he continued, "but you've got to be careful. These days the men who swear to uphold the law aren't always on the side of justice. Mr. Holmes may have rock-solid proof of your innocence, but it won't do a lick of good if the Superintendent is forging evidence and the magistrate's taking money from the prosecution."

I nodded solemnly. "Thank you for telling me." A distressing thought occurred to me. "You won't land yourself in trouble for this, I hope?"

Lestrade shrugged. "I reckon I'm not important enough for them to bother with. I'm not telling you anything you and Holmes wouldn't have discovered for yourselves soon enough."

"Do be careful. There are already enough innocent bystanders involved." I thought of Jeeves and Mr. Wooster and wondered how safe they were now that Roberson was beginning the next stage of his offensive.

Lestrade drew himself up. "I may be retired, but that's no reason to treat me as a civilian." He spoke softly, as if I were a restive client who needed reassuring. "Doctor, I've been your collaborator on many cases, and I'd like to think that I'm your friend, too. Please, tell me what's going on."

I sighed and told him what I knew, by necessity leaving out certain private details. I had wondered more than once if he suspected the nature of my relationship with Holmes, but neither of us had ever spoken of it or even hinted at it, and now was certainly not the time to risk such a revelation. Lestrade listened in silence. When I concluded my tale, he nodded solemnly.

"I remember Roberson. Nasty business that was," he said. "I'll do what I can to help. At the very least I can ask around and find out who in the force you can trust and who you can't."

"That would be very kind of you," I replied, touched by his loyalty, even after so many years.

"Nonsense. I'm sure you and Mr. Holmes would do the same for me."

I shook his hand and he departed. Once he was gone, I lay down upon the bunk and closed my eyes. Imagining that the hard wood beneath me was a soft mattress and that a Sussex breeze whistled outside the walls, at last I fell into a restless slumber filled with strange dreams of Lestrade arresting Holmes for murdering Mr. Wooster.


	11. Sacrifice

_From the pen of Bertram W. Wooster: In which an ultimatum is issued._

Chapter 11: Sacrifice

Holmes was away for many hours. Jeeves puttered about the flat, tidying here, cleaning there. I envied him his chores, which was a new sensation for me, seeing that I had always kept a valet precisely so I won't have to be bothered with work. In situations such as these, however--when, after Watson's arrest I dare not leave the house for fear of being snatched up by Roberson's cronies and desperate for something to keep my mind off my predicament--I wished that I had some simple task to perform, some job that would keep me occupied while we waited for Holmes to return. The thrilling novel I'd been reading was no distraction as my current life held more twists and turns and hair-raising terror than the book. I sat at the piano, plunking out a melody, but every tune turned glum and desultory.

It occurred to me that there was nothing in particular stopping me from participating in the daily chores. Well, nothing beyond the fact that I hadn't the faintest idea where to begin, although dusting always looked straightforward enough. Seeing that Jeeves was no longer merely my valet, it might even be appropriate for me to share the labour.

"I say, Jeeves?" I called. He drifted in from the kitchen immediately.

"Yes, sir?"

"Can I give you a hand about the flat?"

"That won't be necessary, sir." Jeeves, for some reason, looked alarmed at the prospect. His eyes widened a full millimetre and his brows twitched.

"Perhaps I should be clearer," I began. "I should like to help. I need something to do or else I'll go mad. Perhaps I can wash the dishes?" Jeeves's subtle look of horror grew, and if he were a less reserved bird I suspect he would have run to the dish rack and clutched them protectively. "Or," I continued before he could deny me, "I could do something simpler, like dust."

Before Jeeves could reply, the untimely doorbell rang and Jeeves floated off to answer it. "What is it, Jeeves?" I asked.

"A telegram, sir, for Mr. Holmes."

"Holmes? Who'd send him a telegram here? Or is it that Roberson scoundrel again."

"Indeed it is," Jeeves replied tersely, tearing open the telegram.

"Jeeves! What are you doing?"

"Reading the missive, sir."

"I can see that, but it was addressed to Mr. Holmes. You can't just read other people's mail."

"I beg to differ, sir; I just have."

"Ah. Well. In that case, what does it say? Anything important? Anything that might help us bring the dastardly villain to justice?"

"There is nothing of use immediately apparent, merely a proposal for yet another hostage exchange." Jeeves crossed the room and passed the telegram to me. It said:

S HOLMES

DOCTOR EXCHANGE FOR YOU. COME ALONE TO DISCUSS. EIGHT HOURS TO DECIDE.

TTP4C2L5W1P6C1L8W3P1C4L9W9P3C4L4W1

M ROBERSON

"Oh dear," I said when I'd finished reading. "Things are getting soupier and soupier. What do you suppose all those letters and numbers at the end are about? Some sort of code?"

"Yes, sir. I suspect that a specific text is required to decipher it. The 'p' for page, 'l' for line and 'w' for word."

"What about the 'c?'" A thought struck me; Jeeves wasn't the only one in this flat with brains, after all. "I have it! 'C' is for chapter, right?"

Jeeves pursed his lips in a most distracting fashion. "It is doubtful, sir. With the page number given, knowledge of which chapter would be unnecessary."

"You're right, of course." I thought the matter through further. "Unless," I stopped, thinking the idea through from all sides. It held up under scrutiny. "Unless the page number isn't the page number of the book, but the page within the chapter specified. So that first bit would be page four of chapter two."

"Perhaps," Jeeves replied. "It would explain why the page numbers are uniformly small."

My spirits glowed to hear the approval in Jeeves's voice. It wasn't often that one Bertram Wooster got one over on Jeeves, mentally speaking, or really in any other way, either, so it warmed the whatsits of my heart to have said something that Jeeves found worthwhile.

"What about that double 't' at the beginning?" I asked. "What does that mean?"

"That is undoubtedly referring to the title of the text."

"Double 't,' eh?" I pondered. "There's that popular new war novel by G. Scott Wayforth _Tell Tommy_. Or the old Rosie M. Banks romance, _Tilda's Trick_." I frowned in thought but no other titles came to mind. "I suppose it's too late in the evening now to hop down to a book store and have a browse through the shelves."

"Roberson wants Mr. Holmes to be able to break the code; therefore, it will be a book Roberson could expect Mr. Holmes to have in his possession. I doubt that the works of G. Scott Wayforth or Rosie M. Banks meet the criteria."

"What book do you think it is? We can't go through his valise to see if he happens to have a book that begins with t-squared."

Jeeves raised his eyebrow in a message so clear he might as well have said aloud, "Why can't we biff off to do just that?" Only Jeeves, of course, would have said it in a much more proper and logophilic way.

I replied to his unspoken comment. "Oh no, we couldn't possibly. He's sure to notice if we go mucking about in his things; he's Sherlock Holmes after all. He probably has the position of each sock perfectly memorized. No, we'd never get away with it, and I don't think he's the type to take a breach of privacy in a kindly and forgiving manner."

"As you say, sir."

"I do say, Jeeves." With that argument firmly concluded in my favour, I absently played a few minor chord progressions on the piano, muttering possible book titles to myself but coming up flat--with the book titles, not the chords, which were in perfect tune.

Jeeves coughed politely, and I paused in my musical and mental wanderings. "Have you considered, sir, that the telegram gives a limited amount of time in which to act to save Dr. Watson, and that Mr. Holmes is not here, nor is there any indication of when he might return. If Mr. Holmes does not make an appearance within the allotted eight hours, it may fall to us to negotiate more time, in which case it would be essential to ascertain as much as we can."

"You mean," I translated his words into something more resembling standard English. "You think we should do whatever is necessary to crack the code, up to and including searching someone else's belongings, because Dr. Watson's safety may be left in our hands if Holmes doesn't return?"

"Precisely, sir."

"Well, when you put it that way...I still don't like the idea, but it seems we have no choice. Lead on, Jeeves."

Jeeves inclined his head and glided off towards the guest room, with me trailing behind. It required no great feat of deduction to determine which bags belonged to Holmes and which to Watson. Watson's side of the room was neat and tidy, his spare clothes hung in the wardrobe. Holmes's side of the room, however, looked like it had already been rummaged through and not very subtly at that, more of a "bags dumped out over the floor and then kicked around for a bit" sort of job. The sight reassured me a good deal about our actions. Surely even Holmes wouldn't notice a disturbance to this chaos.

Rummaging about we found assorted clothes, a multiplex knife, a recently published booklet of maps of London streets (the title of said booklet contained no "t"s) , a set of lock picks, pomade and a shaving kit, and a fine fountain pen wrapped in brown paper. Two pistols were in the dresser drawer next to the shirts along with a small, leather bound notebook that on closer examination proved to belong to Watson.

I gingerly lifted up one of the pistols to paw through the clothes underneath. "This thing is heavier than it looks."

Jeeves drifted to my side. "An Enfield Mark One, if I'm not mistaken." Jeeves carefully took it from my hands. "Commonly issued to army servicemen in the eighties. Both firearms appear to be loaded, sir, so take care handling them."

I paused with my fingers on the second pistol. "Eh, why don't you deal with it, Jeeves? You know a dashed sight more about guns than I do. Last time someone put one in my hand I shattered an antique stained glass window and nearly took out the gardener. I wouldn't want to accidentally shoot something with the En-whatits, or the--" I waved my hand in the direction of the other revolver.

"The Webley Mark Six, adopted by British forces in 1915. A powerful .455 calibre revolver and--"

"Yes, Jeeves, I'm sure it's a very nice gun, now please move it so I can search the drawer."

Jeeves did as requested, but the drawer revealed nothing of interest, just shirts and handkerchiefs. "Dash it all! There's nothing!" I exclaimed. "No books that start with 'TT.' Bad enough that we ransacked a guest's room, worse that we don't even have anything to show for it."

"Not entirely, sir," Jeeves said, picking up a well-read and dishevelled copy of today's paper from the nightstand. Frowning, I tilted my head quizzically.

"I don't get it, Jeeves. It's just a newspaper."

"It is _The Times_, sir," he replied with a heavy inflection on the name.

"Yes, what of it? That's the same paper I get every��"" The proverbial light bulb switched on. "Oh, I see! _The Times_, of course! The. Times. Two 't's. That's very clever." I grinned.

I think Jeeves would have rolled his eyes if such a thing were proper. As it was, his eyelids twitched a little bit, and he sighed quietly.

"Wait, no, there's a hitch," I said. "_The Times_ doesn't have chapters, so what does the 'c' stand for?"

"The 'c' in the code stands for column not chapter."

"Brilliant, Jeeves! Bring it into the sitting room and let's test your theory out." Action followed word, and before long I was perched on the sofa. After some heated debate about propriety, Jeeves hesitantly took a seat beside me. I read out the code on the telegram while Jeeves manned the newspaper. The message was short. It said: The Spotted Dog, Ratcliffe.

"Some sort of pub or inn from the sounds of it," I said.

"It is undoubtedly the location whither Mr. Holmes is to betake himself if he wishes to accept the deal on offer."

"That's a rather rotten end of town. Not a place for a gentleman."

"I believe that is the point, sir."

With the code broken, we settled in to wait. Jeeves and I didn't discuss what we would do if Holmes didn't appear, but I assumed that we'd head on down to this Spotted Dog place and tell Roberson or whoever was there on his behalf that Holmes would have liked to have come himself, but wasn't available and could we please reschedule. Fortunately for us all��"for I didn't think much of our chances of success had we tried to renegotiate��"Holmes returned shortly after sunset. He ignored Jeeves's offer for a drink and immediately took to prowling about the sitting room like a hungry and feral cat, hissing and spitting recriminations.

"It was bad enough in the days the police force was merely incompetent. Now instead of accidentally impeding me, they are actively hindering my efforts, damn the lot of them! Between them and the criminals it's like a parasitic infestation has taken hold of the city. Roberson has gone underground and thanks to all the filth obstructing the way, he's vanished from my sight somewhere in the East End. Damn his eyes, and damn my eyes, too, for ever giving in to his demands. I should have anticipated he'd do something like this. I should never have let myself compromise my principles, and I wish to God that I could take those sodding jewels and strangle him with them."

He said a few worse things, too, but I blush to repeat them, even in writing. I certainly didn't expect to hear such words emanating from his mouth. I'd rarely heard a gentleman use that sort of language outside the New York speakeasies. "Don't be so hard on yourself, old chap. You saved my life; what else could you have done?"

"I could have left you with Roberson," he snarled. "Better you than John."

The words pierced my spirit like a splinter buried in the tender flesh of the hand. I couldn't fault him. It would take a man even colder and more inhuman than Holmes to bear the threat to his companion with equanimity. All the same, it was difficult to hear him say that under the present circs, if he had to do the last few days all over again he'd leave me to be murdered. I wilted under such scorn and could not reply. Jeeves, however, manfully stepped up to the plate.

"Although I sympathize with your situation, sir," Jeeves said to Holmes in a very unsympathetic tone, "I suggest you keep such sentiments to yourself while you are here as Mr. Wooster's guest."

"You are a hypocrite if you condemn me for ruthlessness. You think I haven't observed what goes on underneath that stoic façade? What heartless deeds have you done to keep your dim-witted lover in this perfect little bubble you've created, this benign facsimile of the real world where burnt toast and stained jackets are thought to be the height of tragedy? Or subtly punished him for straying from your master plan, as if you were some ostensibly benevolent lord, a god promising mercy but with total obedience and blind ignorance as the price? Mr. Wooster makes a fine pet, I'm sure, although he surely can't be much of a challenge for you. How long before you tire of his witless nattering? Had Roberson killed him I suspect that no one would have grieved for long. Very likely they'd be grateful for the silence. He--"

With every sentence my spirit withered a little more. I cringed like a dog that's too often seen the unfortunate end of a shoe and my eyes were suspiciously moist about the rims. Jeeves then did the most remarkable thing. He curled his hand into a fist and socked Holmes across the cheek, hard enough to knock Holmes back a few paces. Jeeves, as you may recall, is of the tall and broad shouldered mould, built rather along the lines of a rugby player, and although I'd rarely seen him use physical force, when he chose to do so it was as much a force to be reckoned with as his marvellous mind. The acrid drips of vitriolic words came to a halt as Holmes touched his bruised face with an expression of utter shock. He chuckled darkly and then became still, staring out into nothing.

The moment stretched on. My heart was thudding in my ears and my stomach was queasy. I couldn't take the awkward silence any longer, so I opened my mouth and said the first thing that popped to my mind. "You received a telegram while you were out. It's over there on the sideboard."

Holmes glanced at me, then the sideboard, then Jeeves, then me again. Jeeves, for his part, had his best "aloof valet" look on, and were the ridge of Holmes's cheekbone not turning a splendid red I would have wondered if I'd hallucinated Jeeves walloping him a good one, or if he had, in fact, merely asked Holmes if he wanted a snifter.

Holmes padded over to the sideboard and swiped the telegram up with a swift gesture. Moments later he reached for the copy of _The Times_ that Jeeves had left nearby.

"Oh, the code there says, 'The Spotted Dog, Ratcliffe.' Jeeves and I sorted it out while you were gone."

He arched his brow and fixed me with a cold, grey eye. "Did you indeed? I would ask why you were opening my telegrams, but I suspect that yours was not the intellect behind the initiative." He flicked a quick look at Jeeves.

I shifted on my feet like a nervous schoolboy. "Jeeves thought that since we're all in this together, we should know what Roberson is saying, what? And it was a good thing we opened it, because if you hadn't returned, it would have been up to us to save Watson."

"Thank the Lord that such dire action was averted," Holmes muttered. Jeeves stiffened and Holmes stepped back and defensively half raised his arm.

Things were looking like they might get violent again, so I spoke up, hoping to focus their attention on weightier matters. "Well, we're all three of us here, now, in which party is included the two brainiest coves in the Northern Hemisphere. That being you two, obviously. So, what sort of plan are we going to think up? What are we going to do?" I asked.

"_We_ are going to do nothing. _I_ am going to go to The Spotted Dog."

"I think that would be most unwise," Jeeves said.

"Forgive me if I'm disinclined to take the advice of a man who just assaulted me."

"My feelings about and reaction to your abominable behaviour are irrelevant. My concern is not simply for your well being��"which will surely be compromised if you put yourself at Roberson's mercy��"but for Mr. Wooster's and Dr. Watson's as well."

"Believe me when I say that no one is more concerned for Watson's well being than I am," Holmes rasped. "Roberson is not bluffing. Nor is he lying about the terms. For all his many faults, he prides himself on always keeping his word once given. If I give myself up he will let Watson go, and will likewise have no further reason to target you or Mr. Wooster. All three of you will be safe, whereas at this moment none of us are safe while Roberson is at large. It seems a logical exchange."

"But what about you?" I said, horrified at the idea of Holmes blithely handing himself over to that monster. I still remembered the feel of his pistol pressed against my head.

Holmes shrugged, displaying a complete lack of concern. "I've escaped from more precarious situations in the past. Once Watson is freed, I'll have only myself to worry about, a circumstance I'm far more comfortable with. There will be no more distractions."

Jeeves spoke, "I suspect that Dr. Watson would object to this plan in the strongest possible terms."

"As do I," I added. "Whatever harsh words may have passed between us, which, incidentally, I'm more than willing to forgive, the idea of you running off to confront that awful man alone, while the rest of us sit around and drink champagne cannot be count...counted...counter..."

"Countenanced, sir," Jeeves muttered.

"Yes, countenanced. It cannot be countenanced," I concluded firmly. "Besides, if you biff off, our little group will be down one genius, and I for one have no intention of just letting Roberson roam free. When we attempt to bring him to justice we will be severely hampered in our game if he's run off with our nine iron."

"Patience is called for," Jeeves said. "I'm sure there are other ways to see to it that the charges against Dr. Watson are dropped. You must have been working on some plan to that effect before the telegram arrived. Do not abandon your options."

Holmes's eyes were glassy and blank. I couldn't be sure if he actually saw Jeeves or just happened to be facing his general direction. "Yes," he said at last. "Options." He stared vacantly into space for a few seconds more before he returned to himself with a slow and heavy blink. "We still have a few hours to decide. This will require some thought. You may as well dine; regardless of what happens it will probably be a long night tonight and you'll want to keep your energy up."

I retreated to my room to change into my evening suit, while Jeeves set to preparing supper in the kitchen. When I emerged, the flat was quiet, the door to the guest room closed. I assumed that Holmes was holed up inside, and was, quite frankly, glad to be rid of his company for a while. It was churlish of me to think so poorly of my guest, especially since his ill-temper was on account of what must have been deep distress. Still, sympathy can only take one so far, and I'd suffered enough verbal abuse for one evening. It was my dear hope that with a few hours alone, Holmes would purge the worst of his black mood from his system and we could then all three of us work together to save poor Watson.

When Jeeves rapped on his door to call him to supper, however, there was no reply. A quick search of the room revealed that he had changed clothes--my sorry old waistcoat and apricot shirt were piled on the floor--and left the flat unnoticed while Jeeves and I were busy. Both pistols were still in the dressing table where we'd left them, a scrap of paper folded nearby with Watson's name written on the front in a sharp and angular hand.

"Oh, damn," I swore. I reckoned if there was ever a situation that justified swearing, this was it.


	12. A Debt Repaid

_From the pen of Dr. John H. Watson: In which help is received from an unexpected source._

Chapter 12: A Debt Repaid

When I woke the gaol was dark and silent. I was shivering from the cold, my wounded leg stiff from the hard bunk and my eyes sore from a restless night that had done little to sooth my weariness. Hobbling over to the washbasin, I listened for any clue that might reveal the time, a change of the guard or the rattle of breakfast dishes being prepared, but all was still.

I splashed water on my face and ran my hands over my stubbled cheeks, yearning for a razor. At least the cold air had subdued the rank smell, that or my nose had simply become desensitized by the foul odours. Without my watch to tick away the seconds, or any activity with which to engage myself, time seemed frozen in place. I had no idea how long it might have been between my waking until a constable came with a dish of porridge, nor how long between breakfast and my next visitor of the morning.

I was lying on the bunk, wondering if Holmes would remember to eat without me there forcing food upon him, when the door creaked open. Inspector Cinwell lurked at the threshold, pale eyes cast down at the floor. "Come with me please, Doctor."

I rose to my feet, checking a sigh at the thought of enduring more faux interrogation while he waited for me to confess to the theft. He stepped to the side and motioned me through the door.

"No handcuffs this time? Have you at last determined that I'm no threat?" I made no effort to conceal my limp and the absurdity of treating an old, crippled doctor as a dangerous criminal.

"The charges against you have been dropped. You're free to go." Cinwell said, ignoring my limp and indeed my whole person, still gazing at his scuffed shoes.

"'The charges have been dropped.' Just like that."

"Just like that."

"Would you care to enlighten me what changed your mind regarding my innocence?"

"Mr. Holmes made arrangements for your release." Cinwell's flat expression--neither bitter nor triumphant--put me ill at ease. He led me down the long corridor, past the cell doors and out into the main lobby.

"Are you saying that Holmes proved that I'm not guilty?" I did not know what to think if that was the case��"gratitude, of course, for contriving my liberation, but unrest about the sort of deception he must have engineered to supply his "proof." However noble my motives, I _had_ been a participant in the theft, and although I had seen Holmes neglect to point out evidence to the police, I had never known him to outright falsify facts.

"I'm not saying that at all," Cinwell replied. "I'm saying that he secured your freedom." He strode to the main desk, where a sergeant on duty passed him a brown paper bag. This he handed over to me. "Your belongings. Everything should be accounted for."

I opened the bag and drew out what things had been confiscated by the custody officer: my watch, pocketbook, pen, and some loose change. Amongst the change was a gleam of bright gold, the engraved words of the physician's oath, _Primum non nocere_, breaking the sheen. I glanced sharply at Inspector Cinwell, and for the first time that day he met my gaze.

"That is yours, I believe? You don't have to answer; the fingerprints did confirm it," he said in a slick tone.

"I thought this was evidence," I said, unable and unwilling to hide the cynicism colouring the final word.

"It's no longer needed." His eyes darted away again. "Take it and go. There's a cab outside waiting for you."

The transition from the dim indoors of the station to the midmorning sun was not as startling as I had expected. Heavy clouds slithered low across the sky, the filtered light rendering the colours of the city more vibrant in contrast, from the sanguineous red of a lady's hat to the midnight blue of a gentleman's tie. A cold breeze blew in from the river, chilling the tips of my ears, and making me yearn for my hat which had been left behind in Mr. Wooster's flat in the confusion of the arrest.

It was a short ride from the police station to Berkeley Mansions, but I fidgeted the entire way, my stomach fluttering with as yet unnamed dread. I was up the stairs and at the door to Mr. Wooster's flat as fast as my protesting leg would take me.

As soon as I knocked, Jeeves opened the door and led me to the sitting room. Mr. Wooster's expressions were as simple to read as a children's book. He sprang from the settee with a bright "What ho!" but the wide and open grin he gave upon first seeing me collapsed quickly into confusion and from there fell into horror. My throat tightened.

"Holmes." I coughed to clear the boulder that had settled on my chest, crushing my heart. "Where is Holmes?"

"He left," Mr. Wooster said, fiddling with the buttons on his waistcoat. "Last night. Jeeves and I told him not to go, and we thought he'd agreed, but then next time we turned around, poof, he was gone. We tried to go after him--"

"Gone where?"

Wooster babbled further about supper and the fire escape in words that I scarce could hear for the rushing in my ears. I grabbed him by the shoulders before I realized that I had even crossed the room. "Mr. Wooster, where did Holmes go?"

Wooster shook his head, his blue eyes wide. Jeeves, however, had the answer I needed and yet dreaded. "Your presence here, sir, can only mean that he surrendered himself to Roberson."

Wooster, his brief fit of muteness overcome, squeaked out, "There was a telegram, you see. It's over on the sideboard if you want to see it. Roberson wanted to bargain, you for Holmes. You're here, so Holmes must be..." Wooster trailed off, for which I was grateful. If their suspicions were correct, then Holmes had been in Roberson's clutches for nearly twelve hours now. Although logic told me that there was no better explanation for Holmes's absence, the irrational and idealistic part of me that Holmes so frequently belittled longed for some other explanation, one that would see Holmes safe. Holmes's own voice seemed to rise up from my subconscious, however, to chide me for such foolish optimism in the face of cruel facts.

I released Mr. Wooster and walked to the sideboard as if in a daze. Picking up the telegram, I wished it would disintegrate in my hands as if its destruction could erase its history. It remained hopelessly real, the cheap paper brittle under my fingers.

"Is that a code at the bottom?" I said, tracing my finger along the strange line of letters and numbers.

I hardly noticed that I spoke aloud until Mr. Wooster replied, "It is. 'The Spotted Dog, Ratcliffe,' it says. Jeeves thinks that's the place Holmes was to hand himself to Roberson."

I needed no other words. First, I hurried to the guest room to retrieve my service revolver. As I left the guest room, rushing to the front door and tucking the revolver in my pocket, Mr. Wooster called out, "Where are you going?"

"To The Spotted Dog, of course!" I pushed my hat down upon my head and reached for the doorknob.

"Sir," Jeeves said, "Mr. Wooster and I already examined the premises last night when we first discovered Mr. Holmes's absence. By the time we reached our destination, he was nowhere to be found. When we queried the clientele, we learned that Mr. Holmes had arrived an hour earlier and then departed in the company of four men, one of whom fit Roberson's description. It was a meeting place, nothing more. There is nothing to be found there."

My hand dropped to my side. "I must do _something_. Perhaps you missed a clue, some trace, which could lead me to their whereabouts."

"We were most thorough in our examination, sir. According to the publican, Mr. Holmes was in the location for no more than five minutes. He sat at a table with Roberson and three other men. He smoked one cigarette and refused a drink. Afterwards, all five of them left in a black car, which drove east. They left nothing behind save for empty glasses and burnt out cigarette stubs."

"Jeeves could even give you the name of the drinks they had and the brand of cigarettes they smoked, if you like," Mr. Wooster piped up. "We cased the place up and down, side to side, top to bottom."

I longed to believe that if I went to the pub, I would discover something new. My honest self-assessment, however, knew that such an outcome was nothing more than a wishful daydream. Perhaps Holmes could have coaxed a busy and dim lit pub to unveil further traces after twelve hours of spilt drinks and drunken carousing had spoilt every square inch of ground, but I could not. I removed my hat and dragged myself back to the sitting room, smothering the voice inside my mind that screamed for me to do something, no matter how useless. Now of all times I could not afford to act illogically.

"Is there any way to track the car?" I asked Jeeves.

"No, sir. It was an unremarkable vehicle and no one saw the registration plate."

"Then what the devil do we do? There must be something, some way to find him. I can't just sit here while Holmes's life is at stake."

Mr. Wooster wandered into the conversation. "Under normal circs, I'd suggest someone contact the police, but given our recent troubles I don't suppose that they'll be much good."

His words jogged loose a memory. "Of course! Lestrade!" I exclaimed, to Wooster's confusion. "Jeeves, send a telegram to Mr. G. Lestrade, Number 14, Noel Road, Islington. Tell him that Roberson has Holmes and ask him to come here as soon as he can."

Jeeves departed to send the telegram. I prayed that Lestrade would be at his house to receive it. Pacing up and down Mr. Wooster's flat for what felt like eternity, but could not have been more than three-quarters of an hour, I was half-mad with impatience when the doorbell finally rang and Jeeves admitted Lestrade.

"I came as fast as I could," he panted as he removed his hat. "What's happened?

As we moved to the sitting room, I elucidated recent events, everything that had happened since I last saw him yesterday afternoon, and showed him the telegram Roberson had sent. Jeeves, meanwhile, drifted silently about the room and brought out stiff drinks to soothe restless nerves.

"We need to find them. Is there anyone on the force we can trust?" I asked, turning the glass of whisky around in my hands.

"There's at least one fellow I'm sure of. Shelton. He was my sergeant before I retired, and was promoted to inspector a few years ago. He'll find some trustworthy constables. Get them out looking for any trace of Roberson or Mr. Holmes." Lestrade took a swallow of his drink. "But there's not much we can do. London is a big place; we can't search it all."

"Holmes said that Roberson has hiding places down in the East End. We could focus our search there."

"We'll do that," Lestrade replied gently. "But it's still leaves us with a lot of ground to cover."

"Of course," I replied blankly. "Whatever help you can provide would be most appreciated."

Lestrade rose from his seat, setting down his glass, and stood before me, solemn and grave. "Doctor," he said, placing a firm hand on my shoulder and bending so that we were face to face. "I'm going to be frank, because I know you're the sort of man who appreciates honesty."

I braced myself for what I knew he was about to say, focusing on keeping my breath slow and even.

"I'm sure Shelton and the rest will do everything they can, but, well, it doesn't look good," Lestrade said with sombre sympathy. "Mr. Holmes has already been missing for over half a day. We don't know where to begin to look. And Roberson..." His voice softened. "We have no reason to expect that he'll be merciful. People who vanish under circumstances like this, they aren't usually found. Now, Mr. Holmes isn't your ordinary kidnapping victim, and he's surprised us plenty in the past. But..."

I did not trust myself to speak, or even to nod to indicate that I heard. It was as though my skin were a thin veneer of ice on a winter pond and one small disturbance would shatter whatever appearance of calm I possessed. Lestrade patted my shoulder in an awkward attempt at comfort, but I barely felt it. Fortunately, Mr. Wooster took charge of the conversation, for I was struck mute and senseless.

"Be that as it may," Mr. Wooster said, "we aren't going to give up yet. Why, when I was a lad, I once lost my cat for two whole months before--"

"Sir," Jeeves interrupted, shaking his head slightly and flicking a glance in my direction. Some distant part of my mind wondered what I must have looked liked to cause him to abandon his customary formal deference, interrupting his young master. Whatever pitiable air I had, it was sufficiently palpable to compel even Mr. Wooster to silence. It was this, strangely, that drove me back to my senses. It was my duty, my role to remain calm while others panicked, to be grounded and sensible while others fluttered about. The realization that Mr. Wooster of all people was currently more self-possessed than I exposed to me how far gone I was.

I breathed out a long sigh, and, burying my fears deep, returned to the world. "Mr. Wooster is correct. We're not giving up. As soon as the police find the slightest clue--"

Lestrade spoke before I could complete my thought. "I'll keep you updated on every detail of the search, I promise."

"Thank you," I said gratefully, as I escorted Lestrade to the door.

Lestrade gathered up his hat, saying, "And if you hear anything new��""

"We'll send you a telegram at once," I finished.

Lestrade nodded and left to contact his associate. There was nothing to do but wait and hope that either the police were fortunate in their search or that Roberson would slip up. I did not think the odds of either circumstance occurring were very high. Speaking not a word, I dragged myself to the guest room to change and shave. My clothes still smelled of the gaol. Although the completion of my much-needed grooming rendered my appearance more civilized, it did nothing to raise my spirits. I still felt as trapped and hopeless as I had while confined to that rank cell.

Lestrade was true to his word, and sent frequent reports on the status of the search. Other than the first message, however, which informed us that Inspector Shelton, once contacted, was happy to take up the case, all the rest were the same. No trace yet. Search continues. In this way, hours passed. Luncheon came and went, although I barely tasted the food put before me.

The atmosphere of the flat was grim, quiet, and dark. A mist came up off the river during the mid-afternoon. Drops of water dewed on the window and streaked down the glass, distorting the view of the world beyond. It was in the middle of this unpleasant weather that Mr. Wooster received a visitor. When the bell rang, Mr. Wooster jumped from his seat.

"Whoever it is, tell them I'm not at home. I've got better things to worry about than Tuppy's latest woes or Barmy's new wheeze."

"Yes, sir." Jeeves said as he drifted to the foyer. The moment he opened the door, however, the guest did not wait to be rebuffed, but slipped under Jeeves's arm and strode into the sitting room. Jeeves followed with a disapproving glint in his eyes. "I am sorry, sir. She would not be put off, nor did she offer her name, but rest assured that she is neither Mr. Glossop nor Mr. Fotheringay-Phipps."

Tall, slim, and black haired, she wore a red sheath and carried a matching purse. Her lips were scarlet and her eyes darkly rimmed. Despite her youthful adornments, however, the lines around her eyes and mouth indicated a woman of middle age. She did not dress or comport herself as the sort of lady I would expect to find amongst Mr. Wooster's circle of acquaintances, nevertheless, he recognized her immediately.

"Ettie! Why, imagine seeing you here!" He said as if greeting an old friend. Within a moment, however, his smile vanished. "Wait a minute, you kept me tied up. You're one of Roberson's goons, a lady-goon, if such a word exists. You've got some nerve showing up at my home unannounced. I dashed well don't want you anywhere near me or my flat, and I'm certainly not going to offer you a drink. So you can just betake yourself away right now." He pointed at the door in a wide and firm gesture.

I drew my revolver. Whatever the details of Mr. Wooster's experience with the woman, he had fingered her as a friend of Roberson and therefore an enemy of ours. She did not appear armed, but appearances could be deceptive, especially, as Holmes so often liked to remind me, when a woman was involved.

"Close the door, Jeeves," I said. Jeeves obeyed without question, shutting the door behind the woman Mr. Wooster had called "Ettie" and standing with his back against it, blocking her escape. I nodded at him once in gratitude. I raised my revolver and aimed it at her chest. She gaped when she saw the weapon, her eyes wide.

" 'Ere now, I've come to help!" she protested. "There ain't no call for that."

"Do you deny that you work for Roberson?"

She tossed her hair, plastering self-assurance over her alarm. "I ain't denying that I done him a favour or two. Marcus's good for a tit for tat, and he's a man who's better to have as a friend than an enemy. But he's not me boss. I'm a free woman. I run me own business and there's no man tells me what to do."

"You participated in Mr. Wooster's confinement."

"I didn't do the poor boy no harm."

"Why are you here? More favours for Roberson? Another damned message?"

"I already told you I ain't here for Marcus. I'm here to help you. I've got information on Mr. Holmes. But if you ain't interested..." She turned as if to leave, uncaring of the pistol still pointed at her and Jeeves blocking the way.

"No!" I cried out, desperation raw in my voice.

She faced me with a smug twist to her lips. "You'll have to put that away," she nodded at the revolver, "before you get a peep out of me. I don't like threats."

"No." I added, "I don't trust you."

"I'm on your side!"

"I'm afraid your mere protestations of good will aren't enough."

She sighed, aggrieved. "Fine." She thrust a hand into her purse and pulled out a handsome little derringer. She pivoted the barrel and let the cartridges fall into her hand. "Good 'nough now?"

"Not quite."

"What, do you want to search me?" A vicious smile spread across her face. "If you do, I want it to be the rich and handsome young one what does it."

Mr. Wooster took a frightened step behind me.

"I can't make you trust me. But why else would I come here, then? Marcus's got what he wanted, don't he? He don't give a damn about you. He wants to kill Mr. Holmes more than he wants to kill you. And to get Mr. Holmes to come along all peaceable, he had to swear that he'd not hurt you, or so I was told. He's done with you. I'm here of me own will. To��""

"To help," I interrupted. "Yes, you've said. What you haven't said is why. Double-crossing Roberson can't be safe. I don't imagine you're here out of sudden fit of remorse, so what's your motive?"

Her eyes flashed and her red lips pursed. In another time, another life I might have thought her a fine-looking woman. Such an observation only made me tense further as I imagined Holmes's reaction had he been here and tried to push from my head images of what even now might be befalling him.

At last Ettie spoke. "I owe Mr. Holmes, that's why I'm here."

"Owe him? Why? For what?"

She blinked rapidly and lowered her head and at first I thought that she would refuse to answer. "I don't suppose one of you fine guvs would give a girl a ciggie, would you?" The evasion was obvious, but I took pity on her and acceded to her request. After Mr. Wooster offered her a light, she resumed as if she'd never paused.

"When I was still a young thing, there were a man who was copping his fun beating and raping girls and carving all manner of strange words and symbols into their skin. One of them bled right to death, a girl what he cut too deep. A few died of infection after. I was lucky." She pulled the neck of her dress down, revealing a few inches of bare skin. There, at the top of her breasts and half-hidden by white fabric of her undergarments, were a series of thin scars. "We was all scared to go outside. It was like them Whitechapel murders all over again. The bobbies, they couldn't give a damn about us, but Mr. Holmes, he came in and he sent that bastard to hell. Got him caught, tried, and hanged."

"I don't remember this case."

"Of course not," she replied scornfully. "You was off being respectably married at the time."

I suppressed a flinch. The years of my marriage were trying ones for my friendship with Holmes. Although he was never impolite--or at least no more than was usual for him--in the years leading up to his disappearance at Reichenbach Falls, he avoided my company and was often evasive and uncommunicative when I asked about his doings. It would not be unreasonable, therefore, to assume that he had engaged in many cases of which I had not been aware. Regardless of the plausibility of her tale, my aim did not waver.

"Trust me or not, as you like," she said. "It don't make a whit of difference to me. But it might mean the world of difference, life or death, to Mr. Holmes."

"If I may interrupt, sir," Jeeves said, stepping away from the door. "I believe it would behove us to listen to what Miss Ettie has to say."

"It's Mrs. Fordyce to you. Henrietta Fordyce," she interrupted.

"My apologies, Mrs. Fordyce," Jeeves replied before returning his attention to me. "As I was saying, sir, Mrs. Fordyce may have crucial information. As her demands are simple and not unreasonable, namely that all weapons be put away, I suggest that we comply. Once we have gathered what information we can, then we may concern ourselves with ascertaining the veracity of her tale and determine which steps to take accordingly."

Reluctantly, I lowered the revolver and took a seat, placing the pistol on the coffee table where it would be in easy reach should it become necessary. "Now, what do you know about Holmes?"

She slunk into the chair opposite mine and tapped her cigarette over the ashtray. "I know where Marcus is keeping him."

"Where? Where is he?" I tensed on the edge of my seat.

"Hold your horses, I'm getting to it!" She took another drag of her cigarette and it was all I could do not to snatch the thing from her hand and shake her until she gave answers. After what felt like an eternity she said, "Marcus's got these warehouses, down on Wapping Lane. These last few weeks he's been having cages brought in there, the sort you'd use to transport circus animals, like. They're for his merchandise; he's going to have them put in his ships soon as they make port. I'd bet me old grandmum's heirlooms that Marcus took Mr. Holmes there. It's a good place for that sort of thing. Secure. Private. No houses nearby to hear..." She trailed off for a moment. I noticed that my fingers had dug into the upholstery of the chair and made a conscious effort to relax them. Ettie continued. "To hear anything suspicious," she finished tactfully.

"Do you know what he plans?"

"I don't know no specifics, just that Marcus intends to kill him eventually, but none too quick. So I reckon that you still have time to save him."

Without my conscious will, my hand drifted up to cover my mouth to contain the sick horror that was rising up my throat. I was disgusted to find myself grateful to hear that Roberson intended to torture Holmes, for the simple reason that if Holmes was suffering than at least he was still alive. It was the height of selfishness to prefer that Holmes be in agony than leave me, but I could not apologize for it. Pain and the memory of pain would fade but death was forever.

My tongue was numb and my throat dry and empty as a desert. I was grateful when Jeeves took over the conversation, saying, "Thank you for the information, Mrs. Fordyce. Is there anything else you can tell us? Any detail might prove useful."

She shook her head. "I told you everything I know." She crushed the end of her cigarette in the ashtray and stood. "I've got to get back to me girls."

"Much obliged for the help, Ettie old girl," Mr. Wooster said, escorting her to the door. He reached inside his jacket for his pocketbook. "May I offer you a fiver for your trouble?"

A flash of longing crossed her features. "I told you I'm settling a debt. Wouldn't be much of a settle if I got paid for it, ain't that right?" She smiled and her eyes narrowed to dark crescents, her hand reaching out for Mr. Wooster's sleeve. "There is something what you could give me, though."

Mr. Wooster laughed nervously. "And, ah, what would that be?"

Ettie slid her hand up Mr. Wooster's arm and smirked at his darting eyes. Then she stretched on her toes and gave Mr. Wooster a matronly peck on the cheek, grinning mischievously as she drew back. "That wasn't so bad, now was it?"

"Right. Yes." Mr. Wooster cleared his throat and shuffled Ettie to the door.

As soon as she left it was as if I'd broken from a trance. Trustworthy or not, I could not bear to let another second slide by in which Holmes was at Roberson's mercy whilst I sat and did nothing. Ettie's story might lead me to a dead end or a trap, but it was all I had and so I grasped it with fervour. I stood and paced the sitting room. My leg was still a trifle stiff from last night's sojourn in the local gaol, but my limp was nearly gone. It would not slow me down appreciably, and that was all that mattered.

"Send another telegram to Lestrade," I said to Jeeves, rushing to the guest room to fetch my medical bag. I feared I might have need of it once I found Holmes. "Tell him that I'm going to the warehouses on Wapping Lane and ask him if he can get Inspector Shelton and as many constables as he can gather to meet me there as soon as possible."

"Yes, sir," Jeeves replied.

Mr. Wooster shrugged back into his own jacket and followed me into the guest room, saying, "I'll just go fetch the other pistol, shall I? The Webby-something-something. I'm no good with it, but I'm sure that Jeeves will handle it like a master."

I grasped his meaning in an instant. "Mr. Wooster, you're under no obligation to accompany me on what's likely going to be a very dangerous endeavour."

"By no means! There's the Code of the Woosters to consider," he retorted. "Anything to help a chum in need. And right now, you're in more need than has ever been any chum I've ever had. It is a matter of family honour, of decency, of good...thingness to friends. The Woosters of old would roll in their graves if I failed to display boldness, courage, and whatsits in the face of danger and abandoned the forward charge. I suppose I shouldn't speak for Jeeves, though. Not being a Wooster and all, he doesn't have to go if he would prefer not to."

Jeeves's eyes narrowed. "Under no circumstances will you undertake such a risk without me."

"Well, that's that, then." Wooster slapped his hands together. "It's decided. Jeeves and I are coming with you to lend whatever meagre aid we can."

The telegram was sent off to Lestrade and Holmes's pistol tucked away in Jeeves's coat pocket. Jeeves led the way to the garage where Mr. Wooster's automobile was kept. Even the small time it took to get ourselves arranged in the seats seemed too long. At last, we were on our way.

"Tally-ho!" Mr. Wooster said, pressing on the gas, sending the auto racing away from the gloaming light.


	13. Preux Chevalier

_From the pen of Bertram W. Wooster: In which plans are made and ethics are discussed._

Chapter 13: Preux Chevalier

It was full dark by the time we arrived near Wapping Lane and found a secluded place to park the car. I would have driven right up to the door of the nearest warehouse, but Jeeves suggested that it would be less conspicuous if we were to park further down the road and walk. There were a number of warehouses on the street, and it would take a careful and catlike stealth to determine which one was housing our quarry.

Any sensible and well-groomed cat would have avoided this street, however. The rain had let up, but the foul smell of mould, fish, and waste hung in the air with the mist. The pavement was slick with puddles, many of which were disguised as shadows due to the absence of sufficient streetlamps. After stepping in my third such puddle, I decided that even cats would have a devil of a time walking quietly in this mess.

Watson was our vanguard since he had more experience with this sort of thing, i.e. sneaking up on villainous lairs--the people in the lair being villainous, that is, not the lair itself, which could potentially be as benign as a row house or a tobacconist's. Jeeves brought up the rear and I was between them, ostensibly because they each had a weapon and I did not, although I couldn't help but to feel that I was being herded or contained, like a piece of undisciplined cheese between two pieces of stern, armed bread. I felt a bit useless, but I did not for one second doubt that before the night was out Bertram Wilberforce Wooster would have his moment.

I was so busy thinking about this Moment, what it would look like and how I would have it, that I didn't notice when Watson stopped in his tracks. If it weren't for Jeeves's quick reflexes, grabbing my shoulder and holding me back, I would have run square into him. Watson's back was taut and his left hand rose in a gesture indicating that we should wait.

"What is it?" I whispered.

Watson shook his head and hissed for silence. I clammed up obediently and was rewarded with a finger pointing down the street. I squinted in the darkness. A shadow crept across the lane, anonymous until it gained the pavement on the other side and passed under a streetlamp. It was Inspector Cinwell, the man who had arrested Watson not two nights ago, and he was walking in our direction.

Watson pushed me into a nearby alley with such force that I staggered and nearly fell into a heap of rotting leaves. I caught myself against the wall and prepared for action, although what action it would be I was not quite sure. Meanwhile, Watson drew his pistol and thumbed the whatsit on the end so it made a click. Cocked, that's the word I want, he cocked his pistol. He then nodded meaningfully at Jeeves and received a solemn bow of the head in turn. I wondered if they'd worked out some sort of code involving various and sundry head shakes in advance, or if these were standard recognized signals known by people who have served crown and country, as Watson did in Afghanistan and Jeeves did in the early days of the Great War. Regardless, I had no idea what they were planning, but as they seemed to have the thing well in hand, I took myself out of their way. Jeeves stationed himself against the wall where the alley met the lane. When the inspector passed, Jeeves lashed out like a striking viper or a lightning bolt or something equally fast and deadly.

He looped his right arm tight about the man's neck, and, clapping his left hand over the chap's mouth, hauled him back into the dark alley. A second later, Watson pressed his revolver against the inspector's temple, instantly curtailing Inspector Cinwell's incipient struggles. Cinwell raised his hands in surrender.

Once the situation was thus made clear to the inspector, Watson took a step back, saying, "Wooster, check him for weapons and bind his hands."

"Right ho." Spotting a gun at the inspector's waist, I drew it from its holster, and not knowing what else to do with the blasted thing, I tucked it in my waistband and resumed my search. No further weapons found, I looked about for a length of rope, going so far as to turn out my pockets, although I was pretty sure I hadn't stashed any rope, cord, binding, or even twine on my way out the door this evening. "I say, with what shall I bind him?" I asked, at a loss.

Jeeves, as always, had a solution. "If you should remove your tie, sir, I believe you would find that it will answer for the purpose."

"Tie him up with my tie, what? When you put it that way, it seems so obvious that I can't imagine why I didn't think of it myself," I said, my hands tugging at the old half-windsor.

"Nor I, sir."

It was a bit awkward, tying Inspector Cinwell's hands behind his back while Jeeves still held him locked in his grip, but I managed. I'm a pat hand at tying knots, have been since I was a lad. Untying them, however, is another matter. At Eton, I once had to cut the laces off a pair of shoes to remove them from my feet. Fortunately, I was not excessively fond of this particular tie and would not weep were it to become necessary to break out the scissors at some later time.

Cinwell was subdued and surprisingly agreeable about the whole tied-up-in-an-alley thing; undoubtedly Watson's steady aim contributed to Cinwell's placidity. Once he was adequately bound, Jeeves pushed down on the inspector's shoulders gently but implacably 'til he was forced to seat himself on the ground.

Cinwell winced as he sat. "You couldn't have picked a drier spot, could you?"

"The state of your trouser seat should be the least of your concerns," Jeeves replied.

"Where is Holmes?" Watson interrupted, impatiently. "And do not think of trying to deny your involvement."

Cinwell raised his shoulders in an abbreviated shrug, hampered by his bound wrists. "I'd no intention of denying it. Circumstances being what they are, there would be little point."

"Then tell me where Roberson is keeping Holmes."

"The large warehouse across the road and four buildings down," he replied readily. Too readily, I thought, but Watson didn't seem keen to question the gift horse's truthfulness.

Watson said to Jeeves and me, "Guard him and ensure that he doesn't escape or sound an alarm. I'll see if I can find Holmes."

As he was leaving, Jeeves stopped him with a hand on his arm. "Sir, I appreciate your anxiety, but I believe that your emotions are causing you to act with precipitous haste. If you truly wish to save Mr. Holmes, and not, instead, merely increase Roberson's leverage by recklessly placing yourself within his grasp, I recommend we proceed with caution."

In the diffuse light from the streetlamp, which gave the mist a sickly glow, I could see on Watson's face the conflict of head and heart playing itself out. Jeeves's advice was wholly logical, but that dratted malady love attacked the wits above all else, as I had ample cause to know. I had observed it in others many a time, and I don't doubt that I'd be experiencing much the same mental agony if Jeeves were ever held captive in a warehouse by a homicidal felon.

"Roberson has used you against Mr. Holmes before," Jeeves continued. "Would you so readily put yourself in a position to be used again?"

That threat to Holmes decided it more than any possible endangerment of Watson's own life. He breathed a shaky sigh and returned to where Cinwell sat. "You'd better lead the interrogation, Jeeves. I'm not…" His sentence drifted off, unable to encompass what he was and was not at that moment. Jeeves didn't press for details, but crouched face to face with Inspector Cinwell.

"You have made no attempts to flee, even while two-thirds of your guard were distracted," Jeeves said.

"Would you like me to?" Cinwell answered, his tone strangely flat and lacking in fear, disdain, braggadocio, or any of the other things one might expect from a man in his position. Instead, he behaved as if he were a distant spectator of events, one who had little interest in the situation, conversation, or life in general.

"I am merely making a curious observation. Most men in your position would at least be contemplating escape, whereas you appear wholly indifferent to your circumstances."

"I assure you, I'm not indifferent. My trousers are soaked and my arse is getting bloody cold."

"Who are you working for? Roberson?"

"No. Adams. Superintendent Adams." He chuckled. "Think of Adams as the contractor and Roberson as the rich and demanding client. I, of course, am the exploited labourer."

"What service is Roberson contracting?"

"At first, it was simply to frame Dr. Watson for the theft of the Jewels of Tarpeia, to hold him in custody until further notice was given, and to make sure Mr. Holmes was aware of the situation. I wasn't told why and I've found that in circumstances like these it's better not to ask."

Watson broke in. "Where did you get the fob that you presented as evidence?"

"Adams gave it to me. I don't know where he got it--possibly from Roberson, possibly from some other police officer Adams has under his thumb. Adams put me on the de Glanville case and told me to suppress whatever evidence I found that pointed to anyone other than you as a suspect and to drop that fob on the grass for one of the constables to find. Surprisingly, I had to suppress no evidence at all. It was a masterful job; what little evidence I found legitimately--a partial footprint under the sill--could indeed have come from you." He stopped, staring at Watson with curiosity.

Watson scoffed. "I dare say there are thousands, even tens of thousands of other people in this city with shoes similar to mine. They're hardly unique."

"Quite right," Cinwell said. "Not enough to justify an arrest, but when combined with the fob it was enough to hold you for a while. Adams told me that if you went to the summary court then the conviction was in the bag, and if you insisted on a trial by jury then further damning evidence would be brought forward to secure the desired verdict."

"Justice bought and sold," Watson spat.

Jeeves resumed his questioning. "And what task are you carrying out for Roberson at present? What brought you here tonight?"

"I was making arrangements with him for finding Mr. Holmes's body."

The silence that followed such a chilling statement was a heavy presence pressing on my tongue. Ever since my own close brush with death at Roberson's hands, I'd known that murder might be in the offing, but despite such awareness it nevertheless came as a shock to hear Holmes referred to as a "body." Watson, to my surprise, was the first to regain speech, slow and halting though it was. "Holmes…is he?...he's dead then."

Cinwell smiled tightly. "Not yet."

Relief burst from Watson in a shuddering breath. "Thank God!"

"God has nothing to do with it," Cinwell retorted. "Roberson is enjoying watching Holmes go mad."

"'Go mad?'" Watson said. "What do you mean 'go mad?'"

"Roberson's got him caged up, like an animal, and when I saw him he was--" For the first time since his capture, I detected a glimmer of emotion in Cinwell. He turned away so that his face was wholly in shadow. When he continued his story, his words had a raspy edge. "Sometimes he would just writhe and spasm, limbs contorted and neck twisted unnaturally. He would scream and thrash as if terrified, eyes bulging and darting about wildly. Other times he'd have moments of somewhat greater lucidity and would beg for water and babble about being burned alive."

"Ah-ha, I know this one!" I said, grateful for the opportunity to contribute. "_Radix pedis diaboli_, what?" I looked to Watson for confirmation. I naturally hoped that it was not so, as the poisonous root was deadly and capable of driving a man permanently insane, but it seemed the most reasonable guess.

Watson shook his head slowly. "No. No, it doesn't sound right; there are many other substances that can cause hallucinations. The poor souls afflicted with the devil's-foot root were utterly raving. There were no lucid periods while under its effect."

"And there's no place Roberson could have administered it," Cinwell added. "The warehouse has no small rooms and Roberson hasn't taken Holmes anywhere else. The root needs to be burnt in an enclosed space to be inhaled by the victim in sufficient quantity, yes?"

"Yes," Watson replied acidly.

"I have read your stories, Doctor."

"But clearly failed to absorb any moral precepts from them."

Cinwell paused before he replied, each word clipped. "We can't all be Sherlock Holmes."

Watson was ready to give some sort of cutting rejoinder, but Jeeves steered the interrogation back to its rightful course. "Do you know what Roberson gave Holmes?"

"No. It was administered before I entered the scene. Holmes was already in a frenzy when I arrived and he remained so during my entire stay."

"How long was that?"

"Around an hour. Roberson insisted on playing genteel host," Cinwell sneered. "Although I suspect what he really wanted was an opportunity to show off his trophy." Watson muttered an imprecation under his breath. Cinwell continued as if he hadn't heard. "I think it was wearing off, though. That or he simply wore himself out. Whatever the cause, by the time I left Holmes was quieter than he had been when I arrived."

"Aside from Roberson and Holmes, who else is in the warehouse?"

"There are four other people. Common hired thugs from the look of them."

"Armed?"

"At least one of them had a pistol. I didn't see whether the others were likewise equipped, but I suspect so. Roberson's very proud of his prize and doesn't want it getting away."

Jeeves stared at Cinwell for many long seconds, a hard glare that could turn a chap inside out and make him squeal. Cinwell offered nothing else, however. At last, Jeeves stood to confer quietly with Watson.

"Sir," Jeeves said to him. "Given the facts that we are outnumbered and outgunned and on hostile territory, I recommend that we take an indirect approach."

"Are you getting one of your corking schemes, Jeeves?" I asked, my heart lifting at the thought. If anyone could save the day, it was Jeeves.

"Not all the pieces are yet in place, but I am working on it, sir."

"We do have the advantage of surprise, at least," Watson said. "If we burst through the door, take them off guard, I'm sure I could shoot at least one of them before they could react. If you, Jeeves, could take one as well, between the two of us, if we're lucky, we could at least even the odds a bit."

Cinwell, who must have been listening intently to overhear their quiet muttering, laughed a dry, acrid laugh. "Don't be daft," he scoffed. "Roberson will spot you in one second and shoot you in the next. You don't want to go barging through the front door. You'll want to go around to the east side of the building. In the back there's a small door, nearly invisible. It looks like it hasn't been used in ages. There are old crates stacked in front of it that are half rotted from exposure. If you're very careful, you might be able to enter through there undetected."

"If it's nearly invisible, how do you know of it?" Watson asked suspiciously.

"I scoped the whole outside carefully before I met with Roberson. Knowledge is power, as they say."

"Wait just a blasted minute," I said. "Aren't you on Roberson's side? Why would you tell us all this unless it's some sort of trap? We go in the back door thinking it's safe when it's really under guard by men with guns, and all that?"

Cinwell twitched an eyebrow in a half-hearted facial shrug. "I've no loyalty to that bastard, and Dr. Watson's criticism of my moral fibre aside, I don't enjoy seeing a decent man murdered."

"Yes, but if you are lying, then that's exactly what you would say." I said.

"I do not believe the inspector is being mendacious," Jeeves replied, contemplating Cinwell's face. "If I am assessing the inspector's psychology correctly, he is a man to whom crime did not come naturally, but for whom it was learned. He probably showed no delinquency as a child, but slipped into vice only as an adult. He did so with full cognisance of the moral repercussions of his choice. He no longer balks at immoral acts and has coldly participated in many misdeeds. He was perhaps once idealistic, but is now cynical. His criminal activity is not performed on his own initiative, but at the bidding of those who have power over him. Bitterness fuels a desire to lash out at his superiors in whatever feeble way he can. He is a villain, perhaps, but pathetically so, out of habit and fear of retribution more than any real malevolence."

Cinwell's mouth hung open in shock. At last he spoke. "I think your opinion of me was more flattering when you thought me irredeemably evil."

"Roberson, exercises his own free will, however appallingly wicked that will may be." Jeeves replied. "You, however, have washed your hands of your moral agency, allowed yourself to be led by others, and have permitted your sense of ethics and decency wither into apathy. Although Roberson is assuredly the more malicious, I would nevertheless be hard pressed to decide which of you is more contemptible."

An uneasy chill ran down my spine at Jeeves's words about "free will" and "agency", although I could not swear to its source. It may have been the mere thought of the mighty force of the Jeevesian ire, or the reminder of what foul people I'd become surrounded with these last few days, or just a cold breeze coming off the river and slipping under my collar. Whatever the source, it niggled under my skin and refused to be cast aside. I had the feeling that my brain--which, despite being often referred to as deficient, negligible, or barmy, did experience the occasional bright flash--was trying to tell me something, something unpleasant that I'd rather not hear. I ignored its rusty groan and turned to more practical matters.

Succeeding in this herding of the mental sheep down the proper pathways, I said, "I think the most sensible option would be to wait for Lestrade's police contacts to arrive. Then we could hand Inspector Cinwell into their custody, surround the warehouse, and demand Roberson's immediate surrender."

Watson didn't seem very chuffed at this plan. I suppose waiting patiently outside the building where his dearest companion is being tormented until reinforcements arrive would be trying for any man of action. Jeeves, too, was unconvinced. "Roberson does not strike me as the sort who would surrender easily."

"He'd put a bullet through Holmes' head just to get one last memorable victory in before he was arrested," Cinwell said.

"So we can't wait for the police and do it the official way," Watson said. "What are our other options?" Watson and I looked at Jeeves.

"We do have a hostage of our own, sir, whom we could put to use."

I turned to where Jeeves indicated. Cinwell, however, laughed. "There's not a chance in hell that I'll get you anywhere. He doesn't give a damn about me. His deal is with Superintendent Adams. And the Super has plenty of other inspectors on his unofficial payroll; he won't mind if I go missing. I'm expendable. You won't get anywhere by holding me hostage. Sherlock Holmes is worth hundred times more than I am and Roberson knows it."

"I wasn't proposing an exchange, but a distraction."

I was a bit lost. "What are you getting at, Jeeves?"

"I suggest that Dr. Watson enter through the front with the inspector here as a hostage. While he engages in negotiations, thus distracting Roberson and his guards, I enter through the rear entrance and venture to liberate Mr. Holmes. When Mr. Holmes is free, Dr. Watson extracts himself by whatever means necessary. It is an extremely perilous strategy, and fraught with uncertainty, but with such constraints of time and manpower it is the best I can put forth."

"Sounds as good as anything," I said. "But what do I do, while Watson here is dangling bait out front and you are sneaking around the back?"

"You will remain outside and inform the police of the situation when they arrive."

Even I could tell when I was being pushed aside. Had I asked, undoubtedly words such as "for your own good" or "out of harm's way" would have been uttered, so I didn't bother asking. Instead I demanded, "No no no and no. On no account am I going to twiddle my thumbs on the street whilst you and Watson are walking into Lord knows what danger." I took out Cinwell's pistol from the waistband where I'd stashed it. "I've got a weapon now, so I might be of some use. I coming with you, and I shall not be gainsaid."

"As you wish, sir," Jeeves said in that rummy sort of voice, which he employed when the polite words he was saying were completely opposite to what he was feeling, which was more along the lines of "go boil your head." He did not openly object, although I had a sneaking suspicion that he was merely biding his time.

"Do you know how to use that?" Watson asked, gesturing towards the pistol.

"Well, a bit. That is to say, I did a spot of pheasant hunting out at Aunt Dahlia's place once, although we used rifles, which were, as I recall, a fair bit larger than this little thing. I didn't hit any pheasants but I did fare better than my friend Gussie Fink-Nottle. He couldn't get his gun to go off at all and couldn't work out why until later that evening when Cousin Angela pointed out that he'd never once loaded the bally thing."

Watson looked frightfully alarmed at my story relating my firearm experience��"it was hearing about Gussie's foolishness that caused it, no doubt. At last he said, "Just don't point it at anything that you don't mean to shoot."

"You're all barking mad," Cinwell said. "Three," he flicked his glance at me, "Make that two-and-a-half against five, on their turf, every advantage theirs and you're going to waltz on in anyway? Anyone sensible would cut his losses and get out. I could understand the doctor's lapse of reason on account of his close association with Mr. Holmes and consequent fear of losing him, but you two," he shook his head at Jeeves and me, "are either inveterate risk-takers or dangerously thick."

I drew myself up. It was one thing to call me thick��"indeed, it happened with some regularity��" but it was another thing entirely to hurl such an accusation at Jeeves. It was not to be borne. "Nothing of the sort. Loyalty to friends is a motive which I should think both obvious and above reproach."

"Furthermore," Jeeves added, "any ethical man would refuse to abandon a good person to death when it was within his power to stop it."

"You yourself said that you didn't want to see a decent man murdered," Watson said softly.

"But I didn't volunteer to risk my life for his," Cinwell replied.

"You don't have to. So long as you don't betray us to Roberson, I won't harm you. You don't have to help us, just so long as you don't hinder us."

Inspector Cinwell turned his head down in thought. At last, after a few seconds pause, he nodded slowly. "There's a set of lock picks," he said, "in the inside pocket of my jacket. They'll help you get through the back door. None of you gentlemen look like the type to carry such things on your person."

"I didn't think upstanding policemen carried such things either," I said.

"Haven't you been paying attention? I'm not upstanding." Cinwell smiled archly. "Besides, perhaps I did pick up a thing or two from the good doctor's stories. Mr. Holmes wasn't above a bit of judicious breaking and entering, eh?"

"Just what the force needed, I'm sure," Watson replied. "Someone who picked up all of Holmes's most dishonest tendencies and none of his virtues."

Jeeves grasped Cinwell by the elbow and hauled him to his feet, holding him upright even as Cinwell slid on the wet cobbles. Slipping his hand into Cinwell's jacket, he quickly retrieved the promised lock picks before passing Cinwell over to Watson, who, pressing his revolver against the inspector's back, held him in a position not dissimilar to the one I'd been in a few days ago with Roberson. We walked together to the corner of the warehouse Cinwell had indicated, a large, windowless edifice, and paused at the junction where we were to go our separate ways.

"I'll wait ten minutes to give you time to find and unlock the back entrance, then I'll go in," Watson said. "Just…find Holmes, as fast as you can, and get him out." He held his medical bag out to Jeeves. "Take this. Do what you can for Holmes once you've got him to safety."

"We will," I assured him. Jeeves and I began our long walk around the enormous building. As we started down the alley, I mused, "First Ettie, now Inspector Cinwell. You know, Jeeves, Roberson has pretty poor luck in his allies. Pretty soon, he won't have any left at all."

"Nothing so completely baffles one who is full of trick and duplicity himself, than straightforward and simple integrity in another."

"One of yours?"

"No, sir. The Reverend Charles Caleb Colton," he said. "Whereas a wise man will find and cherish his opposite--his complement, if you will--it is the nature of those who are unwise to surround themselves only with those similar in nature, and so men like Roberson, who are dishonest and have no loyalty in their hearts and no understanding of decency or devotion, often find themselves betrayed by others."

All this philosophical talk got my brain shouting for my attention. That shiver down the spine that came on when Jeeves ranted about will and morality and all that brainy stuff had not abated, but the source had at last become clear as the message seeped into my bone and settled uncomfortably there next to assorted criticisms that had been lobbed in my direction over the years. "Did you really mean all that?" I asked. "About the inspector being contemptible for letting others control him?"

"I did."

"Do you…?" I nibbled at my lip, trying to decide how best to phrase the thing but quickly gave it up as a lost cause and blurted it out. "Do you think I'm contemptible? Upon reflection it does seem that everyone else has their way with Bertram W. Wooster and as much as I may resent the intrusion, in the end I acquiesce. It's a…what's the word…en-something…enteric…endemic! That's the chap. It's an endemic feature of my life. Someone--Aunt Agatha, Aunt Dahlia, fellow Drones, assorted ex-fiancées, even you--tells me to do something and I say I won't and then I somehow end up doing it anyway."

"I was referring specifically to moral weakness, and despite various forceful outside influences issuing demands and the occasional misdemeanours into which you have been coerced, you have always retained a firm moral centre. You do not abandon your core principles."

"The Code of the Woosters, what?"

"In part," he replied. "It is also in part your own nature. You may occasionally accede to another's wishes, but you never forsake your sense of self or allow others to fashion you into anything other than what you are."

I tried to wrap my head around the thing, but feared my head hadn't quite the circumference to encompass it. "You mean, I'm all right because at the end of the day Bertram is still Bertram and not some pseudo-Bertram or faux-Bertram of someone else's making."

"Yes."

"I'm not sure I get your meaning there, dear chap, but I'll take your word on it."

"If I may be so bold to suggest, however, it may behove you to be more forceful in placing your own wishes before, or at least equivalent to those of others upon occasion. I think you would find that your life would become, on the whole, more congenial as a result."

"If you think I should, Jeeves, I will by all means give it a try."

A smile lurked in the vowels and peeked around the consonants as Jeeves said, "Indeed, sir."

We turned the corner and crept along the east side of the building. Jeeves whispered to me, "We must be nearing the door now. It would be best if we speak as little as possible from this point on."

"Right ho," I whispered back. We were silent as ghosts, if ghosts had to splash around in puddles, until we reached the door itself. As we carefully pushed the crates aside, Jeeves muttered to me, "It would be best if you waited by the door to ensure that I am not taken by surprise by possible reinforcements of Roberson's."

I did not reply, not an acquiescence or even an acknowledgement. Jeeves, clever chap that he was, knew at once that something was wrong. He raised a querying eyebrow at me. "I know what you're trying to do, Jeeves," I said.

"I made no secret of it. I am endeavouring to ensure that no one slips in from behind."

"There's little chance of that and you know it. You're trying to protect me." I placed my hand on Jeeves's cheek. "I appreciate the thought, old chap, and I know that it's a habit that must be difficult to break considering how often you've pulled the Wooster corpus from the soupiest of soups, and I'm never one to object to a helping hand, but I don't want you to put my welfare above yours. We're equals now, what? So if you're going to put yourself in danger, I'm going to bally well be right there beside you. Metaphorically speaking, since we'd not literally fit through the door walking side by side. Besides, you told me not five minutes ago not to let others boss me about, and so here I am, exercising my will. I want to share the danger with you and I'm damn well going to, no matter what you or anybody else says."

"You pick an inconvenient time to follow my advice, sir."

"Would there ever have been a convenient time to challenge you?"

"Undoubtedly not."

"Well, there you have it."

"I do heartily request, sir, for my safety as well as yours, that you follow my lead and obey my directions once we are inside."

"I think I can agree to that. I'm sure you're more practiced at daring rescue missions than I."

Jeeves looked me in the eye with a decidedly solemn cast to his mien. Just as I was about to open my flap and ask him what vexation put such a rum expression on his face, he dropped the doctor's bag to the ground and grabbed my lapel with a careless violence that would have appalled the fine craftsman who'd stitched this jacket and pulled me into an equally ferocious kiss. I let out what I am ashamed to say was a rodentious squeak, the sound a mouse whose tail has been trod upon might make. This is not to say that I objected; on the contrary, as soon as my initial surprise passed, I ran my hands over Jeeves's sleek head, and, looping my arms around his neck, held him firmly in place and returned his gesture in kind.

It was the most unromantic spot in which I'd ever engaged in an amorous pursuit��"the air clammy and ripe with mould, the light gloomy, and the general atmosphere better suited to Dickens than Austen. I shivered from my crown to my soles all the same as the dismal quality of the setting was overcome by a certain whatsits that this kiss had, which prior ones had not. There was desperation in the intense pressure that pushed my spine back into a curve, and a bit of fear in the tremble of his lips, but also sureness in the soft motions of his jaw and steadfastness in the way his free hand rose to lightly caress my cheek. This was not a Jeeves hesitating, not a Jeeves of two minds, or a Jeeves in doubt. Not, that is to say, the Jeeves of the night before last when we first embarked upon this course. This was a Jeeves who, having jumped in with both feet, had decided that rather than climbing out and calling the whole thing off as a bad deal he would instead dive under and grow gills.

It did not last long, but those few seconds carved for themselves a memorable set of initials on the tree of the Wooster psyche. There was no time to think on it further or speak on the matter, which was just as well, or I fear I would have babbled some embarrassingly soppy nonsense about moonlight and sunsets and roses.

Jeeves set to work picking the lock with brisk efficiency. I suppose I ought to have been surprised that my honest and upright gentlemen's personal gentleman knew the ins and outs of lock picking, but considering the breadth and depth of knowledge and skills Jeeves has shown in the past, I would not have been shocked were I learn that he was adept at tightrope walking and lute making and knew all there was to know about particle physics besides. After a little poking and prodding, the lock clicked open.

Jeeves switched out the picks for his gun and motioned for me to have my own pistol at the ready. He silently turned the knob and with a cool professionalism opened the door and aimed at the space beyond. I belatedly pointed my gun around as well, just as Jeeves was doing, but my tardiness was pardonable since there was nothing more threatening than a shelf full of boxes on the other side.

The word "cavernous" springs to mind as the sort of adjective one would attach to a description of the interior of the warehouse. Although I was in a cavern once, in the south of France, and it must have been a cavern of the smaller sort, because it had in no way as high in ceiling or as expansive a breadth as this building. The dim and echoing quality was spot on, though. We left the medical bag just inside the door, so that it would not hinder us if we had to move quickly.

Jeeves went first, gliding on silent feet. It had never before occurred to me to consider how the noiseless tread of a good domestic and his (or her, I suppose, if said domestic were a maid) ability to vanish at will when his (or her) services were not required would naturally lead him (or her) to be skilled in the sort of furtiveness that expeditions of this sort demanded. Jeeves, stealthy as a cat, eyes bright and alert, and pistol at the ready, could have come straight out of MI5. For my part, I took great care that I didn't trip in the darkness over any of the boxes or crates or fall into a shelf. I kept my eyes fixed on Jeeves's broad shoulders and moved when and where he did.

As we manoeuvred around one aisle and slid down another, I grew aware of voices rattling about and bouncing off the walls. The words were unintelligible, too broken up from being tossed from one end of the warehouse to the other and back again, but I thought I recognized Watson's steady cadence. Jeeves picked up the pace and before long we reached the south wall. Up until that point, this building was just like any other warehouse. Unaesthetic, but not sinister. The cages changed all that. They were empty, fortunately; nevertheless, the hisses and groans of despair echoed from them just as plainly as Watson's voice echoed from the main door. I tried to imagine the people who had been trapped in those small cells, and those who will be, but even with the evidence there before me I couldn't comprehend it. It was like something out of the old, barbaric slave trade��"something that I'd thought was safely historical, and the reality of which contradicted my understanding of the world.

I had no time to rethink what I had previously believed were truths about the civility of the modern world. Jeeves led us down the south wall, past cage after grim cage��"a whole row of them. A splash of light spread across the far corner, where the south wall met the west, within which two silhouetted figures stood. As we neared them, Jeeves slowed and walked with his back tight against the cage bars, one more shadow among the shadows. The men��"for that's what the figures were, two large, brutish men��"were busy looking elsewhere, their faces in sharp profile. They didn't notice Jeeves and me creeping towards them.

As we got closer, I saw a third man, too, just on the other side of one of the shelves. Jeeves positioned himself behind and just around the shelf corner from that third man and gathered himself to strike. I remained by the cages, out of his way, and considered what I might do to help. Shoot one of the two silhouettes, perhaps? I'd never shot anyone before, and felt a little queasy at the thought of doing so now, but if it helped Jeeves and saved Holmes, Watson, and all those people who would otherwise be seeing the inside of those cages, I'd do my best. I raised my gun and aimed at the nearest figure.

A shot exploded. For a moment, I thought that I'd pressed the trigger of my pistol without realizing it. A second later the observant part of my brain pointed out to the rest of me that as loud as the shot had been, it did not have the ear-ringing quality of the retort of a gun going off in one's hand. The second after I'd determined that, I panicked. If I hadn't fired the shot, that left open the question of who did, and more terrifying, who was being shot at.

My first thought was for Jeeves, but one glance told me that he was not bleeding on the floor, pierced by a bullet. On the contrary, he was faring quite well for himself, although the same could not be said for the man he'd just pistol-whipped. From my position, I couldn't see either Watson or Roberson, nor had there yet been hide or hair from Holmes.

My immediate fears, if not allayed, were slightly abated; I recalled my determination to assist and stepped forward with my revolver again at the ready. My shot was spoiled, however. Where before there'd been a clean silhouette, now there was a blob of shadow pressed against the bars of the last cage, held there by long, shadowy arms stretching out from between the bars. The second guard drew a knife and lunged forward to help his friend. I figured that it was now or never. I aimed at the knife-wielding man and pulled the trigger.

I missed. I had, however, succeeding in distracting him from knifing the man in the cage, whom I deduced must be Holmes, by revealing my presence. Unfortunately, this resulted in his turning his attention to me. I raised my pistol again, but was too slow to get off another shot before the man was upon me.

He hit the gun from my hand, and I watched in dismay as it skittered across the floor. Grinning, he swept his arm out in a wide arc and I barely jumped back in time to avoid being sliced open like a letter with a letter opener. As I dodged back, I heard more shots exchanged somewhere nearby, but as none of them were hitting me, I was unable to pay them much mind, my focus fixed on the more immediate matter of the man with the knife.

I was not initially worried; after all, Jeeves couldn't be too far away, and I was sure that he would get me out of this tight spot just as he always did. A mad knifeman would no more stand in his way than a demanding aunt or a determined would-be fiancée. When I had to escape two more swings of the blade, and still no Jeeves came, I grew concerned. There were few things that would cause Jeeves to fail to come to my rescue in circs as dire as this.

I scrambled away from my attacker as best I could, grateful that I'd always naturally tended towards fleetness of foot, and in this way kept myself safe against the onslaught. I think I could have carried on in such a manner indefinitely had not dodged just a trifle too far from an attack and crashed into one of the shelves. My balance ruined, the knifeman darted in. I twisted away and nearly fell, but despite my efforts, I was not able to escape the blow.


	14. Retribution

_From the pen of Dr. John H. Watson: In which a score is settled._

Chapter 14: Retribution

Mr. Wooster and his man took their leave and headed for the back door of the warehouse while Cinwell and I lingered in the alley between the warehouse and the neighbouring building--an abattoir from the look and smell of it. It was not a far walk to the main entrance, and I still had ten minutes to wait for my comrades to reach their position. I was wary of Cinwell, despite his docility, so I kept my revolver close against his back as I steered us towards a dark shadow in which we could wait unobserved by any chance passer-by, however unlikely it was that anyone would be walking down this lonely road in such miserable weather so late at night.

"You know," Cinwell said conversationally, "if I were to run away now, there's little you could do about it. You aren't strong enough to hold me, even tied up as I am, and between your age and your bad leg there's not a chance in hell that you'd be able to catch me, and if you shot me, Roberson would surely hear and your whole rescue mission would be ruined."

I tightened my grip although I knew that he was correct in all his points. "Why aren't you running, then?"

Cinwell shrugged. Tension gripped my jaw. Our whole scheme was predicated on my ability to distract Roberson, and for that I needed Cinwell's compliance if not his active cooperation. At this point, I trusted Cinwell only slightly more than I trusted Roberson himself. Roberson at least was familiar in his habits and had uncomplicated motives; Cinwell was an entirely unknown quantity in our formula. I had nine minutes before I entered the lion's den; I might as well use that time to gather what knowledge I could.

"Jeeves guessed that you were an honest policeman when you started your career. Was he correct?" Cinwell might lie, but if I could get him talking enough, I might be able to shine a light on the character within.

"Yes," he said, then qualified, "Well, as honest as anyone, I suppose."

"What happened?" I asked.

"Do you truly want to know, or are you merely passing the time?"

"I'm a writer; of course I want to know. A fall from grace is the theme of some of the world's most famous literature, from Greek tragedy and the _Bible_ down to Matthew Lewis's salacious gothic novel."

"Always after the human element. I should have suspected something like that from a man who put a forty page Mormon romance in what was otherwise a good mystery."

"If you say one word about ruining a classic example of logic and deduction, I will shoot you," I said. Cinwell took the threat about as seriously as I had meant it. He snickered dryly. I pressed again. "So what is your tale? Why did you do it?"

He sniffed. "Debt."

"Gambling?" I had seen the frenzy that came upon people at the track and had been on amiable terms with one or two obsessive gamblers in my life. The passion invoked by the risk and the sums of money involved made it a breeding ground of crime. More than one of Holmes's cases had a gambler lurking in it somewhere.

"No, not gambling. I never saw the appeal." There was that tonelessness to his voice again, a forced distance as if he were putting the words, along with his anger, under lock and key so only faint traces of acrimony slipped past. "It started five years ago, when I was a sergeant. My brother-in-law was in business; I, however, knew nothing of business matters. He convinced me to invest heavily in one of his projects, a project that failed. He committed suicide in the wake of his failure and I was left financially ruined with my widowed sister and her child to support.

"Superintendant Adams, who was still an inspector then, offered me a proposition��"work for him on the sly and receive a cut of his profits��"and I accepted. Within a year, I'd earned enough to pay off my debtors, but once down that path…" He trailed off, and when he resumed his story, his words were more deliberately casual, and no longer carried the whiff of suppressed rage. "Well, to hell with it, I thought. Might as well be hanged for the goose as the gander. I was taking in five times as much as I could on just my policeman's salary. I was able to afford a lifestyle I'd never had before and could pay for my nephew to attend a respectable public school besides. Furthermore, Adams intimated that anyone who tried to get out would find himself with more enemies than he knew how to handle, so there were disincentives to stop and every reason to continue as I was. And there you have it: the self-justifications of a petty criminal. I fear it's entirely prosaic; no heartfelt romance to enliven your story."

"How old is your nephew?" I asked.

"Thirteen."

"Any children of your own? A wife?"

"No. It's bad enough having my sister and nephew as dependants." Cinwell's comment hung in the silence for the space of three breaths.

"You're tired of the obligation," I said with sudden insight. "You want it all to end. That's why you're not fighting me, because dead, wounded, or convicted of abetting criminals, it all means the same thing for you. It means an end to your current circumstances and that is precisely what you want."

Cinwell did not reply, but I did not need his affirmation to know that I was right. "But it's not just that, is it," I continued. "You resent the obligation to your family that made you become a criminal, and yet you cannot choose to put an end to your unlawful way of life or else your sister and nephew will be left to fend for themselves. Your actions, your sins, will be rendered meaningless and you will have debased yourself in vain. So, you do not act for yourself, but passively wait for fate to make the choice for you."

Cinwell was still, his limbs trembling. He snarled. "Are you using your experience of observation and deduction to reach your conclusions?"

"No, I'm using my knowledge of the human heart."

"Fuck you," he spat. "And your friends, and all your sanctimonious judgment."

"Inspector," I said. He was struck by my mode of address, as I'd intended. I had his attention if nothing else. "I can't claim to know you and I can't say that I like you, but I have encountered many criminals in my long years working with Holmes. A few of them were near demonic in their capacity for evil, and a few were genuinely noble, who broke the law only because the law was not able to grant justice, but most were neither extreme, merely ordinary people with all the ordinary human frailties��"pettiness, anger, greed, jealousy, lust, and fear. If there's one thing I have learned, it is that anyone and everyone has the capacity to become a criminal."

"Including respectable and stalwart doctors?" Cinwell replied sardonically.

"More than you could know."

He gave that dry, bitter chuckle that I was learning was characteristic of him. "Are you trying to save me?"

"No," I replied. "I'm trying to have one less enemy. It would make my coming confrontation simpler."

"I like you. You're honest. I don't know many honest people anymore. Of course, I dislike you for the same reason--honest people are smug and complacent bastards. But there you have it." He paused. "I'm not your enemy."

I considered his words, then lowered my revolver. He twisted his neck to glance over his shoulder and even though the shadows were too dark to see his expression, I could feel his surprise in the quality of his silence. "As you said, you could have run away at any time and I wouldn't have been able stop you. Besides, my fingers were growing cold in all this damp." I put both revolver and hand in my coat pocket.

Cinwell and I stood side by side, neither of us breaking the weighty hush that had overtaken the alley. Many minutes later, Cinwell spoke again. "Would I be pressing my luck to ask that you untie my hands?"

I was not expecting such a prosaic request after such a long and thoughtful silence, but the answer was simple. "Yes, you would."

"I think my arms are growing numb."

"I'll loosen the binding." I picked at the tie, trying to get a bit of slack in Mr. Wooster's tight knot. I wondered if I was bestowing too much trust on Cinwell, a man who openly confessed his essentially deceitful nature. I knew, however, in ways that had nothing to do with deduction and everything to do with instinct that, whatever his motivations, Cinwell was on our side��"for now. It took a devilishly long time to pry open Wooster's knot and retie a new one. As soon as I was done, I took out my pocket watch and peered at it in the gloom. "It's time."

I took out my revolver and resumed the role of captor. Prodding Inspector Cinwell before me, I walked the few steps down the pavement, which took us to our destination. I rapped on the door, unhesitatingly, acting before uncertainty could set in. A few seconds later a gruff voice with a thick Liverpudlian accent came from the other side.

"Who's there?"

I nudged Cinwell with the barrel of my revolver, urging him to answer. "It's Inspector Cinwell," he said. "Open the door."

There was no reply, but the bolt grinded as it slid back and the key rattled, turning in the lock. The backlighting in the warehouse meant that the guard at the door did not at first notice me lurking behind Cinwell's tall form. I kept my back to the doorframe and my hostage between me and my enemies, gaining the threshold before the guard saw me, cursed under his breath, and went for his pistol.

"Roberson, I want to talk," I called out. The guard's pistol rose slightly, but before he cocked the hammer, he glanced questioningly at Roberson, who was making his way around a nearby table��"a plain, wooden bit of furniture with a lamp, the only source of light, standing at the centre.

"Let him in," Roberson said, his head cocked with curiosity. "I want to hear what the doctor has to say."

The guard backed away and I entered the warehouse fully, sidling along the wall to prevent anyone from sneaking up from behind. "I propose an exchange," I said.

"An exchange? One common Scotland Yarder for the great Sherlock Holmes? Not a very equitable exchange. I hope you've got more to offer than that."

"I've got more," I replied. "Let Holmes go. Let him go and we'll go back to Sussex and never cross your path again. You can tell the world that you won, that you beat Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson and forced them to surrender. Just let him go."

"Hmm, tempting offer. Would Mr. Holmes abide by it? He's in no state to be swearing oaths right now. _Mens insana in corpore insano_ and all that."

"He'll abide by whatever I decide."

"He never struck me as the sort who would play the part of the obedient wife, but of course you know him far more intimately than I."

Roberson was goading me, trying for a reaction, so I took care to give him none. "What is your decision? Do you agree to an exchange of prisoners and our concession of defeat?"

Roberson's eyes narrowed and the edges of his full lips tilted up in a faint smile. "Your proposal has some merits, Doctor, but I'm afraid going to have to say 'No deal.'" I had not seen his pistol, but where Roberson was concerned, that meant nothing. His weapon came up in a flash of motion and I had scarcely time to register the movement before he fired.

Cinwell staggered back, forcing me off balance. Letting go of my grip on him, he fell to the floor, writhing and gasping as blood poured from his chest. I put his fate from my mind and my senses narrowed to the immediate concern of survival. My revolver was aimed at Roberson without my having any memory of doing it. For the second time in a week we faced off like duellists at the ready.

"Well, this is familiar." Roberson said mockingly. "Shall we give it a second go? No valet to spoil my shot this time."

Roberson was faster than I, of that I had no doubt. I prayed that my aim was truer, and thanked God that my rural lifestyle shooting stoats and pheasants honed my skill even through my semi-retirement. Sweat prickled on my brow as I watched Roberson's laughing eyes, waiting for the flicker that would warn me of his intent to fire. He, in turn, appeared self-assured and utterly undaunted by my own pistol aimed at him. I could only hope that it was overconfidence that loaned him his haughty air and not some secret knowledge, some special advantage about which only he knew.

"Come on, Doctor, I'm waiting," he taunted. "Or are you incapable?"

I heard pistols firing to my left and spared a brief thought for Wooster and Jeeves. The retort of gunfire echoed around me, and it was as if I were in the fields of Afghanistan once more and the decades between were but a pleasant dream in the midst of a waking nightmare. It was as if two separate minds inhabited my skull, one that watched, outside the whole scenario, and one that acted with calm and methodical purpose. I aimed for his right shoulder and pulled the trigger, dropping to the floor even as Roberson fired his own pistol.

I could not breathe, and for one terrifying moment I thought that I had been hit, a punctured chest the source of my breathlessness. To my intense relief, a moment later my lungs recovered from the shock of my heavy impact with the ground. I inhaled deeply once, and a second time. The warehouse was still but for a few groans of pain; all gunfire had ceased and I was unhurt. The same could not be said for Roberson. He was sprawled across the ground, dazed and squirming from the sudden injury.

I ran to where he had fallen and snatched up his pistol before he could recover his senses. It was only then, with the immediate threat neutralized, that my thoughts returned to me and I became aware of my pulse pounding in my ears. Scanning my surroundings for further danger, I saw none. One man was on the ground, his glassy eyes and slack jaw combined with the broad red stain across his chest proclaiming him dead. Two more appeared to be unconscious but otherwise unharmed, and Jeeves was at this moment subduing a forth man, twisting his arm behind his back until he dropped his knife.

The soldier's instincts fading, the doctor's instincts came to the fore. There were many people hurt, and as in any other battlefield, I needed to determine the best way to proceed to treat my patients efficiently and effectively. My eyes went first to Holmes, who was locked in a small cage against the wall. I desired more than anything to rush to him first, to ensure his wellbeing before all others, but other than a flush to his cheeks and an assortment of bruises, he did not appear to be in imminent danger. Holmes more than anyone would understand putting practicality above sentimentality. In fact, I suspect that had I attended him first, I would have received a tongue-lashing and a rant about romance and irrationality and orders to see to our companions first. His treatment could be delayed; others could not.

Three men were bleeding: Mr. Wooster, Inspector Cinwell, and Roberson. The shot that felled Roberson shattered his scapula, but missed all major veins and arteries. His care could wait. Cinwell was curled on the floor and gasping for air. The bullet had punctured the lower left side of his chest, and must have lodged somewhere in his ribs, judging by the lack of an exit wound. Mr. Wooster was sitting on the floor, leaning back against a shelf. His left arm was coated in blood, which was spurting from his upper arm in worrying pulses, despite his hand covering the wound.

Glancing between the two of them, I chose Mr. Wooster. I had no idea how long he had been haemorrhaging, but it would be the work of a few seconds to give him basic aid, and in any event I would need to retrieve my medical bag from Jeeves before I could do anything for Cinwell. I staggered over, breathing deeply to get my trembling under control and loosening my tie as I went.

By the time I had reached Mr. Wooster's side, Jeeves had knocked out the last guard, and, from the look of it, knocked out a few of the man's teeth while doing so. I called to him. "Jeeves, secure Roberson, then bring me my bag." Paying no attention to his reply, I knelt where Mr. Wooster sat propped against a shelf, looped my tie around Mr. Wooster's arm, and knotted my makeshift tourniquet. Mr. Wooster himself was conscious, but pale.

He winced as I cinched the tie, saying, "Did we win?"

"How do you feel?"

"A trifle dizzy, and my arm hurts like the dickens."

I reached for his right wrist to check his pulse. It was fast, but still strong, and he appeared stable. "Put pressure on the wound and call out if the dizziness gets worse."

Next I made my way to Cinwell. He was bleeding less profusely than Mr. Wooster, but air whistled through the bullet hole. I took a few seconds to untie his hands and turn him onto his back. I pushed his waistcoat and shirt aside and, plucking Cinwell's handkerchief square from his pocket and folding it up with my own staunched the wound.

Jeeves returned, then, placing my black medical bag at my side. As I wrenched at the buckles, I said to Jeeves, "Keep an eye on Mr. Wooster. The tourniquet should stem the bleeding, but let me know if his condition worsens. And bring him over here if you can. It will be easier for me if we can keep the patients in roughly the same place."

Cinwell, like Wooster, was conscious, although much less cognisant. All the same, I spoke to him, trusting that even if he did not understand the words, the professional tones of a doctor would be comforting.

"I can't stitch your wound yet, not until you're at a hospital and have a chest tube in you to drain the blood out of your thoracic cavity, but the bandage I'm putting on should help." I dabbed away the blood and taped an airtight dressing over the hole in his chest.

Cinwell choked and rasped out, trying to speak. I bent closer so I could hear his words. "Damn Roberson to hell. And Superintendent Adams. And you, too."

It was not the worst thing I had ever heard from a patient in pain. "You're welcome."

I stood just as Jeeves returned, carrying Mr. Wooster in his arms like a groom with his bride. He set Mr. Wooster on the ground with the tenderness of a parent putting a child to bed and removed his jacket to place under Mr. Wooster's head for a pillow.

"I'll check on Holmes, then come back to finish tending to Mr. Wooster."

"Very good, sir," Jeeves replied. He retrieved a key from his waistcoat pocket. "I liberated this from Roberson; it will open Mr. Holmes's cell. Roberson and his associates are currently residing in the neighbouring cages."

I thanked Jeeves and took the key. At last I was able to go to the person I wished most to attend. Holmes himself was crouched near the bars, leaning against them as if they were all that were keeping him upright. I unlocked the door as fast as I could and fell to my knees at Holmes's side.

"Sherlock," I said, reaching out for him and self-indulgently stroking the back of his hand with my thumb before turning his hand so I could check his pulse. I scanned his face and body for clues to what Roberson had done. My first impression was one of battered dishevelment: coat and waistcoat gone, shirt untucked and buttons missing, hair wild, lip split and swollen, cheekbone bruised, nose bloodied, and two black eyes. His face was flushed and dotted with sweat, but his eyes were bright and alert. On closer examination, however, his eyes seemed too bright and too wide and staring, the pupils dilated and shining. The flush on his face was at odds with the chill of his hand, and even though his cheeks were rosy, the tip of his nose was bone white. His pulse was thready and weak and his fingertips were the same ghostly white as his nose. That, along with Cinwell's early description, was enough to give me a diagnosis. "Damn him," I muttered, wishing for a moment that I'd aimed for Roberson's heart and not his shoulder.

"John." Holmes's voice was hoarse. "Roberson...he..." His gaze and his words drifted away as if he were too exhausted to hold either a look or a conversation.

"Holmes," I said, squeezing his hand to hold his attention. I could only guess at the dose or how long ago it had been given, and could not be sure what condition his mind was in. "Holmes, you have ergotism. Ergot poisoning." Holmes, staring unblinking into space and moving his lips as if speaking to himself, did not reply. I placed a hand under his jaw and gently turned his face towards me. "Holmes, are you listening?"

"I'm drugged, not..." His eyes skittered as if reading words across a page. "...deaf. It's better now, it's better. I was on fire. Oh, God, John, I was burning, burnt as a witch, just like they warned me. Burning in hell…monstrous dogs gnawing…" He shook his head. "It all seemed so real. More real than this."

I was chilled to the core to see dampness in his eyes and hear a stuttering quiver to his breath. I had never before in my career seen a case of ergotism, but one of my medical school lecturers had dealt with an outbreak in a small village on the coast of France and had loved to regale the students with its strange and horrifying symptoms: nausea and vomiting in the earlier stages; convulsions and hallucinations so vivid that one patient climbed to the hospital window and jumped to his death, all to escape some terror that no one else could comprehend; constriction of the capillaries causing dry gangrene in the distal limbs in the later stages; and, of course, the intense burning whence it derived its name in medieval times��"St. Anthony's Fire. What Holmes must have endured at the height of the poison's effects, I felt ill to imagine.

"I'm here; I'm real." I brushed my lips against his. He sighed against my mouth and when I drew away he dropped his weary head on my shoulder. "Come," I said, draping his arm over my shoulders and wrapping my own around his too thin ribcage. We both groaned as I hauled him to his feet, my leg protesting the motion. "Let's get you out of this wretched cage."

Together, we hobbled across the room to where Jeeves watched over Mr. Wooster and Inspector Cinwell. Holmes, trembling in my grip, moved with uncharacteristic clumsiness. Once I sat him down I surveyed my three patients. "Right. Holmes first, then stitches for Mr. Wooster, then I'll dress Roberson's shoulder if he'll let me." I set to work. As I took a small jar from my bag, Mr. Wooster, who was peering curiously at the proceedings in a manner entirely too cheerful for a man who'd been stabbed, asked, "What is that?"

"Glyceryl trinitrate," I answered.

"Glistening what?"

"Glyceryl trinitrate," Jeeves said, in a voice like a school master. "It is more commonly known as nitroglycerine, although it was initially named 'pyroglycerine.' It is also sometimes known as trinitroglycerine or 1-2-3-trinioxypropane."

"Good Heavens!" Mr. Wooster exclaimed, drawing back. "What if it blows up?"

"It's not pure nitroglycerine. It's perfectly safe," I replied soothingly. "It dilates the blood vessels. With luck it will counteract vasoconstriction before the gangrene takes hold." I used a swab to apply the substance to Holmes's bloodlessly white fingertips and nose, then removed his socks and shoes to do the same to his toes. "It will take effect in a few minutes," I said, even though Holmes showed no sign of listening to me or to anyone, instead staring across the room to the cage where Roberson now sat favouring his shoulder. I swept a gentle hand over his head, running my fingers through his hair before turning my attention to Mr. Wooster.

Cutting the fabric of his jacket and shirt from cuff to shoulder I revealed the gash, which was deep, but not terribly long. I gave him a small injection of morphine for the pain, cleaned the wound, and began stitching. I quickly learned that while Mr. Wooster had what might be called an effervescent personality under normal circumstances, when under the influence of morphine, his speech became incessant, raining out of his mouth like sparks from a fire.

"I say, that's smashing stuff. My arm already feels loads better; I can hardly feel the pain at all." He giggled. "For a while there, I thought I was done for. Jeeves saved my life, you know. I suppose it's not very Wooster-like to play the damsel in distress--did you know that a Wooster fought at Agincourt? And another in the Crusades? Jolly war-like folk, the Woosters, brave and unflinching in battle--where was I?"

"The Wooster family history, sir," Jeeves said.

"No, before that."

"Damsels in distress, sir."

"Ah, yes, damsels in distress. That is to say that, as a rule, I'm not one. Certainly not a damsel, although I will owe up to getting in a bit of distress now and then. The point is, if anyone is going to play shining knight to my damsel, or, well, gentleman in distress, then let it be Jeeves. Just as the beastly villain was coming in for a second blow, Jeeves came out of nowhere and walloped him a good one across the dial." Mr. Wooster's eyes were shining and he gazed at his man with possessive pleasure as he continued to recount his tale. I smiled and let his words wash over me, concentrating on placing the stitches evenly. It was quickly done, which left only one more patient��"one whom I was, to my shame, most reluctant to treat.

Repacking my bag, I said to Jeeves, "As soon as I'm done with Roberson, I'll watch over these three while you go for help. Lestrade's promised reinforcements should be here soon; you can guide them to the right warehouse."

"Very good, sir," he replied. It was surreal hearing that calm and plummy tone, more suited to a drawing room, in the midst of this bleak building and the carnage therein.

I looked at Holmes before I went to Roberson. It may have been my wishful imagination, but it seemed that the flush on his cheeks was receding and colour was returning to his extremities. He was drawn and exhausted, but composed, legs crossed Hindu style and eyes closed. I rose, sparing a second glance at Holmes to verify my assessment and comfort my own anxious mind, which still could hardly believe that Holmes was safe, and made my way to the cage where Roberson sat rocking back and forth in pain and cradling his arm.

Roberson looked up as I approached. "Have you come to take your revenge, Doctor, on behalf of your darling nance?"

"I've come to bandage your wound," I replied, filling a syringe with morphine. "if you will strip to expose your shoulder and come up to the bars where I can reach."

"How do I know you won't poison me?"

"If I'd wanted to kill you, I would have aimed a little further to your left."

Roberson remained stonily unmoved by my answer. The morphine was not medically necessary; I could wrap the injury without it, but medical ethics compelled me not only to treat injury but to ease pain where I could. "_Primum non nocere_," I said. _First, do no harm,_ the motto on the watch fob that had been used to incriminate me. "But if you don't want the analgesic, I won't force it upon you."

I began to put the needle away, but Roberson stopped me with a cry. "No!" he said, and shuffled his way to the edge of the cage, wrestling off his jacket as he came. Waistcoat and shirt were soon pulled from his right side and I cleaned the wound, stitched it, and dressed it. Neither of us said a word throughout the proceedings. I, because I feared that if I spoke I would not be able to prevent the fury and abhorrence I felt from pouring out; he for reasons of his own that I did not care to fathom. Once I was finished with my task, I stood and, turning, nearly jumped out of my skin as I came nose to nose with Holmes, who had been looming over me for some unknown period of time.

"Good Lord, Holmes, you startled me!" His colour was definitely much improved, and he must have been feeling more like his old self if he was once again able to sneak up on me, moving without a sound.

"Holmes," Roberson said as if the words were venom. "You do know that you'll never get the charges to stick. I have money enough to buy half the police force, and you, you're just a relic of a bygone age. You don't have the friends or the influence you used to. And since your doctor insists on meddling, next time I won't be so generous in my willingness to spare him. I'll let you watch, helpless, as I slice open his veins and bleed him out like a pig in a slaughterhouse."

Holmes ignored Roberson with a casual nonchalance that was calculated to offend. "Watson," he said to me. "Your revolver, if you please. I want to interrogate Roberson and find where he's hidden your indiscreet writings and I'd feel safer if I were armed."

"Of course," I replied. "I have Roberson's revolver as well, so--"

"Give me both."

I hesitated for a moment. Holmes interrupting me or issuing demands was nothing new, but there was an edge to his intensity that worried me.

Roberson continued to spit and snarl, still aiming to cause as much fear and pain as was within his power. "Afraid of me, Holmes? You should be. I know what's underneath that mask. I saw you twitching and crying and frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog. I saw your mind shattered and your body helpless. You can put me in a cage but I still have that power��"to know what you look like broken."

I tried to sustain the same indifference to Roberson's taunts and threats that Holmes's did, but it was difficult to endure. I marvelled at Holmes doing so, given the brittle state he was in. "Are you sure you want to do this now?" I asked. "You're not--"

Holmes scoffed. "I'm perfectly fine. The poison is completely out of my system by now."

"You're not fine. You look as if you can barely stand up."

"I'm just tired; my mind is as clear as it ever was."

He did indeed seem lucid, but still I was reluctant. He snarled in impatience. "Hurry up, man! I won't be able to question him once he's in police custody." He held out his long, thin hand. I sighed and against my better judgment gave him the two pistols.

"Would you like me to stay?" I asked. Regardless of Holmes's assurances as to his health, he was still obviously weak; but Holmes, never one to acknowledge his limitations, rebuffed my offer.

"No. Go tend to your other patients. I can manage this alone."

I squeezed his shoulder as I passed, both an admonition for him not to push himself too far and a gesture of support. I returned to where Mr. Wooster and Inspector Cinwell lay. It seemed that Mr. Wooster had not stopped talking from the moment I left to the moment I returned, and as Jeeves departed to flag down the police, Wooster simply redirected his conversation from his manservant to me without a hitch.

"…she'd never believe a word of it, of course," Mr. Wooster was saying. "I can hear her voice now, bellowing out in that way of hers that can be heard across three counties, 'Bertie, you young blot! What are you on about now! Who would want to stab you? Are you sure it wasn't just some innocent chap who tripped on you while carrying a pair of scissors?' To which I will say, 'Assuredly not, Aunt Dahlia!' and add that I would show her the war wound if modesty did not prevent me from so exposing myself before a lady. And Aunt Agatha," Wooster shuddered melodramatically, "she'd probably use this as evidence to what depths I've sunk and the deplorable sort of people whose company I keep��"no offence to you or Holmes, of course��"and fix me with her gimlet eye, gnash her teeth, and rant on about how I need a strong-willed woman to cure me of my wild delinquency."

While Mr. Wooster talked, I checked Cinwell's status. His pulse was still strong, but too fast, and his breathing was increasingly shallow and laboured. He needed the care of a hospital, quickly. I bent to check that the dressing was still properly sealed, when the explosive sound of a pistol firing thundered behind me. My stomach dropped to my boots and my breath caught in my chest as I whirled about, dreading what I would see.

My heart resumed beating when I saw Holmes still standing, calm and uninjured, but the knot in my diaphragm and roiling in my stomach remained when I saw that Roberson was on the ground, blood spattered across the back wall in a spray and pooling around his head.

I ran to Holmes's side and stared down in shock at Roberson's body laying on the ground, unmoving, his skull shattered. Without glancing my way, Holmes handed my revolver back to me and proceeded to methodically wipe down Roberson's pistol with a handkerchief, removing fingerprints, I realized. "He was going to escape," he said. He did not turn to look at me, so I could not see what secrets he might have held in his eyes. "It had to be done."

He knelt to place the pistol in Roberson's hand and curled the dead fingers around the handle. Rising, he scanned Roberson's still form, imagining the scene as a policeman would see it--a criminal, cornered and desperate, about to shoot before being shot in self defence. Draping a gentle hand on Holmes's shoulder, I pulled him away from the body. A garnet speck of blood gleamed on his pale cheek; I stared at it in horror.

"Good God, Holmes! I--Good God!" I could not stay silent and yet I was at a loss for words. Each one tripped over the lump in my throat. "We had him captured! I thought we were going hand him over to the court. What happened?"

"Justice. He should have been hanged years ago."

"Taking the law into your own hands?" I was trembling, whether from fury or revulsion I could not say.

"It's an old habit."

"You murdered someone, Holmes. Shot him in cold blood, a man who was caged, unarmed…"

"People have died in our cases before."

"Accidents!" I shouted. "Or in the case of Moriarty, genuine self defence! Not this…this summary execution, this vigilantism!"

"I tried letting the courts deal with him once. They failed. Can't you see? This was the only way."

Holmes, always so damned sure of himself, would never be convinced that his actions were in the wrong. He had deemed it necessary, and therefore the only logical option--if this atrocity could be called logic.

"And how will the courts deal with you? And what about the police?" I asked. "Deserved or not, it's still murder as far as the law is concerned."

"Has it not occurred to you that I seriously and thoroughly contemplated the moral and practical considerations before I acted? That I did not do this lightly?" he snarled. He looked away for a brief moment. When his focus returned, he was again calm and aloof. "I have you to attest that it was self defence, and I'm sure Mr. Wooster will corroborate my account."

"He didn't see what happened."

"Mr. Wooster will believe whatever he's told to believe, regardless of whether it is the truth."

"And Jeeves?" I protested. "Jeeves will not be so easily misled."

"Roberson nearly killed Mr. Wooster. Jeeves would have pulled the trigger himself had he been the one holding the pistol. With such reliable witnesses--a solid doctor, a solemn valet, and a mostly respectable young aristocrat--the case will be over before it has begun."

I had no doubt that Holmes was correct in his assessment, for he knew well the habits of the police and the courts. I closed my eyes, wishing it would all vanish like a dream upon opening them. To my dismay, no such thing occurred. "I'll perjure myself for you, Holmes, because I love you, and it would kill me to see you hanged. But never again. Do you hear? Never again."

"No," Holmes whispered. "Never again."

Shortly afterwards, Jeeves returned. With him came a bevy of policemen, including a man who introduced himself as Lestrade's protégé, Inspector Shelton. The echoing quiet of the warehouse dissolved into the organized chaos of a crime scene. Cinwell was laid out in the backseat of an automobile and taken to Royal London Hospital. The surviving, unconscious criminal lackeys were shackled and carried away.

When they questioned each one of us in turn, Holmes averred that as he was speaking to Roberson, the man drew a revolver that he had hidden on him, and Holmes was compelled to shoot. It was accepted without question. I said that I was tending my patients when it happened, and so was not paying particular watch, but that to the best of my knowledge events occurred exactly as Holmes said they did.

Once the questioning was completed, I was able to use Mr. Wooster's injury and Holmes's recent poisoning as leverage to convince Inspector Shelton to drive us to Mr. Wooster's flat in a police car while Jeeves followed in Mr. Wooster's smaller vehicle. Mr. Wooster left his telephone number with the inspector in case further questioning was needed, and at last we were left in peace.

Jeeves prepared a pot of tea and a light repast, but it was a solemn meal. Despite Mr. Wooster's irrepressible chatter, I did not engage in conversation, even though I knew it to be unforgivably rude of me to ignore my host. Holmes, too, was silent, picking unenthusiastically at his fillet. Our eyes did not once meet throughout the entire supper.

It was well after midnight by the time we'd finished eating, and the last few days had been far from restful, so we all retired to our respective rooms as soon as the dishes were cleared. Holmes and I held our mutual silence through our undressing and nightly ablutions. When we lay down on the bed, it was with our backs to each other. The rift between us had never felt so vast, a chasm the other side of which I could not even see, much less reach. I wondered how Holmes could have changed so much without my noticing, or, even more distressing, if perhaps he had not changed and I had simply never known him at all.

It was while I was in this state of mind that Holmes rolled over and placed a kiss on the nape of my neck. At first I ignored his attentions, but when his hand drifted around my back and over my chest, I shifted away and sat up, turning to face him.

"It won't solve anything," I said.

He blinked in confusion. "What do you think I'm trying to solve?"

I merely sighed in disgust and settled back down on the bed. Rare as it was for Holmes to initiate any sort of physicality, it was even rarer that I rejected it. He propped himself on one elbow and said, "You're angry at me."

"Of course I'm angry at you!" I exclaimed. "I would have thought you'd draw the line at murder, no matter how just you thought it to be."

"Roberson's actions threatened not only me, but you as well. If he had been acquitted, as he swore he would be, he would never have stopped until one or the other of us was dead. I could not allow that."

"So you weren't lashing out over the torture he'd put you through. It wasn't the ergot still poisoning your brain." Those were the two excuses I was clinging to--passion or madness. Not that either would have made the murder any less real, or less wrong, but it could render it comprehensible to me.

"No," Holmes replied. He hesitated for a long moment before continuing. "Perhaps it would be better if it were, less cold-blooded. I first suspected that I would have to kill him directly after our encounter with him in Mr. Wooster's sitting room." He traced a finger above my ear, following exactly the path of the scrape where Roberson's bullet had grazed my skull.

I shook my head away from his touch. "Good God," I breathed, appalled. "You'd planned to murder him all along?"

"Not entirely. I still believed that I'd be able to simply expose his criminality and see him in prison for the rest of his life, and I acted in accordance with that belief. Underneath the surface, however, where less noble thoughts linger, I imagined killing him ever since I saw you lying on the ground, motionless and bleeding. When he boasted about his money, his police connections, I feared that no matter what I did, what evidence I presented, it would not be enough. All my plans of capture to the contrary, I knew all along that gaol would not hold him, and I could not risk him running free, threatening..." He trailed off, swallowing deeply before he resumed his confession. "The solution was inevitable."

"You never used to say such things. You've grown harsh, Holmes."

"So has the world, and all the gaiety, the music and song, is the world trying to forget the darkness it saw inside itself. After the War…nothing is as it used to be. Not even me."

Holmes never spoke about what he did during the war. Aside from a few brief and impersonal letters to me, he had completely vanished from the world during that time. Those years were a black void. The hollow despair in his grey eyes undid my ire, and the horror I felt turned away from Holmes and towards the fate that had brought us to such circumstances.

"Sherlock." I stroked his hairline, his sharp widow's peak to his temple and further down his narrow face to his jaw and chin. "You're dearer to me than I can express, but you frighten me sometimes."

"I know."

"There were moments when I wanted to kill Roberson," I confessed.

"But you didn't," Holmes replied.

"I didn't."

"You tended his injuries, bandaged his wound, offered him Christian mercy," he said. "You're a better, nobler man than I." His voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm sorry."

I kissed his brow.

"My dear John, I don't know why you put up with me."

I smiled, a little softly, a little sadly. "Neither do I."

He curled into the circle of my arms and breathed deeply as I stroked the plane of his back. He was shivering ever so slightly, although his skin was warm, but I made no comment upon it, and if I had I am sure he would have denied it.

"I don't consider you a bad habit," Holmes muttered into the fabric of my nightshirt.

"What?"

He lifted his face. "I don't consider you a bad habit, or a mere convenience. On the contrary, at times you are damnably inconvenient."

I could not at first place the context for these unexpected statements. Then I recalled our argument all those nights ago in this very room and Holmes's ingenious evasion of the conversation. For him to bring it up again, now, on his own accord, brought a smile to my lips.

"Inconvenient, you say?" I prodded him to elucidate.

He turned his face away and looked anywhere and at anything but me. "At times. I confess, you occupy a disproportionate percentage of my thoughts. So you see, it would not be reasonable to assume that it is convenience that keeps me with you or you with me."

"So what is it?"

He licked his lips and darted his eyes like a nervous schoolboy. "Surely you can deduce the answer now that we have eliminated the alternatives?"

It was as close as I would get to a declaration from him, and, I realized with some surprise, it would be sufficient for now. Holmes could not act otherwise, and I could not begrudge his nature, no matter how it infuriated me. That did not, however, mean that I was compelled to follow his example.

I cupped his cheek in my hand and pressed my mouth gently against his. It was a simple kiss. There was no youthful fervour or lustful passion in it, just a long and abiding warmth. When our kiss ended, I brushed my lips against his ear.

"I love you, too, my dear Holmes" I whispered.


	15. A Favour and a Farewell

_From the pen of Bertram W. Wooster: In which loose threads are tied and a misunderstanding is cleared up._

Chapter 15: A Favour and a Farewell

Holmes and Watson remained guests of mine for another week, lingering in the metrop both to recover from their ordeal and to clear up a few details for the police re Roberson's actions and the adventure in the warehouse. With Roberson dead and gone, it was a simple matter for Holmes to find the stolen papers that had first brought him to London. He contacted Ettie and she led him right to them, where they were tucked away in a safe in one of Roberson's hideaways. That night, Holmes burnt them in our fireplace, watching their immolation with satisfaction. Watson, however, was clearly pained at the destruction of his writings, no matter how necessary it was. One writer to another, I sympathized. I never did get my own manuscript back. My novel, _Jolly Well Done, Jeeves_ was gone for good and I didn't have the heart to rewrite the whole thing from scratch. It was back to shorter works for this Wooster.

I didn't bother trying to tell my publisher the truth of what happened to the promised manuscript, certain that he wouldn't believe me. Instead, I said that a few of my friends thought that it would be a corking joke to hide the thing outside my flat, only the bin in which they chose to hide it was a trash receptacle, which was emptied shortly after they placed it there. My publisher, knowing all about the sense of humour of my fellow Drones from my earlier stories, accepted this explanation at face value.

The wretched Jewels of Tarpeia were likewise never seen again. This did not trouble Mr. Holmes, however, so I, too, put it from my mind. As far as I was concerned, they could bally well sink to the bottom of the ocean after all the mess they caused.

By the end of that week, my arm was healing up nicely, and Holmes was back to his usual dynamic and mercurial self. So it was that on a beautiful, sunny morning, Jeeves and I escorted Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson to Victoria station.

"You know," said I, as we waited on the platform for the train to arrive, "if you ever find yourself in London again and need a place to stay, my guestroom is always open to you. Except when someone else is already in it. That would be a trifle awkward."

"Thank you for your hospitality," Watson said as he shook my hand. "And thank you, Jeeves, for your all your help."

As Jeeves tipped his hat in polite acknowledgment, Watson nudged Holmes, who added, "Yes, thank you both. Your assistance proved to be invaluable."

"Well," I stammered, touched beyond measure by the praise of two men who had been the heroes of my childhood. "A Wooster will never abandon a friend in need, what?"

In the distance, a whistle blew. The train was coming into the station and it was our cue to go. As I turned to leave, however, a man dragging an overburdened trolley shoved me from behind. I flailed my arms and reached out for the first thing I could find to keep me from falling nose first into the pavement. My hands alit on something soft that simply dropped with me as I tumbled to the ground. Immediately a woman started screaming.

I looked at my hands to see what it was I had grabbed, and to my surprise saw there a woman's bag, the strap dangling like a tail. "My bag!" the woman shouted. "He stole my bag!" A policeman's whistle screeched and panic set into my heart. I knew from previous experience that in situations like these, no one bothers to wait to let you explain that it was all a silly misunderstanding, being instead all too ready to assume the worst. There was only one thing to do. I scrambled to my feet and ran.

Unfortunately, a train platform is not a good place to engage in running, as it is too crowded by half and there's no room to get up to any sort of respectable speed without knocking into someone, which is exactly what I did. To my greater misfortune, the man I ran full tilt into was none other than Sir Watkyn Bassett, retired justice of the peace. My disorientation left me so discombobulated that the policeman caught up to me and clapped his beefy hand on my arm before I could sort out which way was up and what direction to run.

"Gotcha! No bag snatcher's going to get away on _my_ watch!"

"Mr. Wooster!" Sir Watkyn exclaimed. He glanced down at my hands, which, to my shock and dismay, were still clutching the lady's white bag. "Back to your old tricks, I see. Rarely have I seen such an incorrigible case of criminality. You'll steal anything that's not nailed down--umbrellas, policemen's helmets, silver cow-creamers, and now a poor young lady's bag. I never thought that even you could sink so low."

"What? No, I--"

"I shall personally see to it that you get the stiffest penalty the law will allow. Perhaps a year or two in gaol will make you rethink your depraved ways. Constable, take him away."

By this time, my companions had caught up with me and were watching the scene unfold with a mixture of bewilderment and concern. I cast Jeeves a pleading look. Jeeves looked at Watson and Watson looked at Holmes. Holmes, for his part, looked to the heavens and offered them an aggrieved sigh. He stepped forward before the bobby could haul me off.

"Pardon me, sir," Holmes said, "but I witnessed the entire chain of events, and I can vouch for this man. He is no bag snatcher."

"And who the devil are you?" Sir Watkyn asked.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes, at your service."

Sir Watkyn's mouth gaped, leaving him with the sort of dazed look a confused trout who'd been slapped across the face with a wet halibut might have. The bobby who'd been holding me loosened his grip until I could have shaken him off with a good sneeze. "Cor, blimey!" the constable swore. "Sherlock Holmes? Really?"

"Quite," Holmes replied flatly. He turned to Sir Watkyn and paused, flicking his gaze across the Bassett form. "You were the prosecutor for the Jackson case, weren't you, in...what year was it, Watson?"

"Nineteen oh one."

"Ah yes, nineteen oh one. Jackson got the rope, as I recall."

Sir Watkyn was still staring, finding the seconds with which to recover from the surprise. At last he said, "Yes, the Jackson the defenestrator. It was a clear-cut case. The evidence you gave us was overwhelming."

"Still, your presentation was masterful. Quite a tidy job."

I could almost swear that Sir Watkyn was blushing, as much as a cold-blooded, walking corpse could blush, that is. He said, "Well, one does one's best to uphold justice."

"I thoroughly agree. And speaking of justice," Homes began, "this young gentleman is innocent. As I said, I witnessed the whole thing; it was a mere misunderstanding." He took the bag from my hands and passed it to the wide-eyed owner who was standing nearby, patting her hair into place.

Sir Watkyn glanced back and forth between Holmes and me, clearly torn. It went against his nature to let anyone off, no matter what the circumstances, and for some years now he'd wanted to see me in particular stand in the dock. Fortunately for me, his trust in the famous Sherlock Holmes outweighed his dislike of Bertram Wooster. "Let him go, Constable."

I shook the bobby's hands from my arms. "I demand a full apology." I waved an admonishing finger in the constable's face.

"I'm sorry, guv."

"And?" I prodded.

"And...?"

"And you won't do it again."

"An' I won't do it again."

I nodded in satisfaction. Holmes thanked Sir Watkyn for his uncharacteristic reasonableness, although not in those words, of course. He checked his watch, and apparently what he saw was to his liking, for he smiled and said to Sir Watkyn, "Before we go our separate ways, I have a bit of tip to pass on. If you want to carry out justice, and earn a deserved reputation for refusing to tolerate crime of any sort, you may find it worth your while to arrange to have Police Superintendent Adams investigated. Furthermore, an inspector named James Cinwell, who is currently recovering in hospital under police custody, was recently arrested on corruption charges. He is one of the many policemen Adams has bribed and coerced. I'm sure that if you offer leniency, he'll be happy to testify again Adams."

"Superintendent Adams? You're sure?"

"Unequivocally."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes." Sir Watkyn shook Holmes's hand and bid farewell.

The constable lingered a few moments more. He shuffled his feet and finally blurted out, "Can I have your autograph?"

Watson, handing Holmes his pen and notebook, chuckled at Holmes's black expression. Holmes grudgingly tore out a page, scratched a signature on it, and thrust it at the star-struck policeman. "If that is all, my companion and I have a train to board."

The policeman gave a nervous, bobbing bow and left. That final threat to my freedom gone, I said in a heartfelt manner, "Ta for that. I thought for sure I was going to be dragged off to the clinker that time."

"That was good of you, Holmes," Watson added.

"Goodness has nothing to do with it," Holmes denied. "Facts are facts. Mr. Wooster was innocent of the crime of which he was being accused."

I said, "I'm grateful, nevertheless. If you ever pass this way again, look us up, old chaps."

"Indeed, we shall," Watson replied. And away they went. Jeeves and I watched until the train pulled out from the station and then made our way home.

Ensconced back in my flat, reclining on the chesterfield with a whisky and s in one hand and a ciggie in the other, I enjoyed the return to my old routine, even as I felt inexplicably sad to see the excitement end. You're probably scratching your head now, thinking, "What? Sad? How could you be sad to find danger is no longer hanging over you every second like that Greek Sword of D��"something? How could you not whole-heartedly rejoice at your life once more resuming its usual calm and carefree state?"

Well, I've been thinking that, too, and what I've realized is that even though I don't consider being held at gunpoint, or knocked silly, or threatened, or stabbed, my idea of a jolly good time, and I certainly wouldn't rush experience those things again, at the same time, once it was over and I could look back on all I'd done, I'd never before felt such pride and achievement for making it through to the end--not even after passing my school exams. It saddened me to think that I may never feel such a sense of accomplishment again. Furthermore, there was a special sort of fellowship that developed in response to the dire circs, sometimes tense, but always there, a certainty that we were all in it together and would watch each others' backs. Last, but certainly not least, I feared that the wonderful thing that Jeeves and I had created during such extraordinary events would pale once life returned to the daily grind.

I was in this pensive mood, thinking back on all that had changed in the last two weeks, when I said to Jeeves, who was flitting about the flat with a feather duster, "Jeeves, come sit with me." I sat up and patted the cushion encouragingly.

"Sir, I thank you for the offer, but recent events have caused me to fall shamefully behind on the cleaning. The mantelpiece in particular is in a deplorable state."

"Oh, hang the mantelpiece. I don't give a damn about the mantelpiece. Is the dust going anywhere?"

"Only if I am permitted to dust, sir."

"Well there it is. If you don't dust today, the dust will still be there tomorrow."

"Exactly, sir." He turned back to the fireplace.

"No, what I mean is that you can do the dusting tomorrow. It's not urgent, what?"

He did not answer, but he set down his duster and sat next to me on the sofa, straight and upright as a statue. It made me more self-conscious of my slouch in comparison. I drew up my spine and knocked back the last of my drink. When Jeeves took the glass to place it on the coffee table, our fingers brushed in a most pleasing manner. Inspired by this, I scooted closer, until our knees brushed. Sitting so close, when I faced him my eyes were but inches from his.

"Jolly good adventure that was, wouldn't you say, Jeeves?"

"If you say so, sir," he said in that tone with the certain whatits when he disagrees but doesn't want to say so. Undoubtedly, he was still upset about the fate of my best jacket. Even if the blood stains could have been removed, the sleeve was beyond repair.

"It would make a corker of a story."

"I hardly think that's wise given the times and the legal situation, sir, especially considering that the entire disturbance began over a series of writings.

"Ah, yes. I suppose you're right. Maybe someday, though, what?"

Jeeves's lips twitched in a smile. "Yes, sir, maybe someday."

A thought struck me. "Jeeves, do you find it strange that I call you 'Jeeves' and you call me 'sir?' Now that things are rather more intimate between us, that is."

"The habits of many years are difficult to break. I do not believe that the addresses we give each other are a negative reflection on our relationship, if that is what you are asking."

"It's just that I don't know many couples who are on a last name basis. Except, I suppose, Holmes and Watson, but then they're from an old-fashioned generation which frequently seems to forget that Christian names exist."

"Does it trouble you, sir?"

I considered the question. "I think it does. You say it makes no difference, but you calling me 'sir' all the time establishes a distance that I don't like. You call every gentleman 'sir.' I'd like some verbal sign that my place _vis a vis_ you is not one that could be exchanged with any other gentleman. Me calling you 'Jeeves' is at least particular to you." I thought again of our recent guests' manner of address. "My dear Jeeves."

A quirk of the left eyebrow, which may have indicated anything from surprise to amusement, did its quirky thing. "Are you suggesting that I call you 'Wooster' when we are alone?"

"You could, I suppose, although usually the only people who call me 'Wooster' are those who can't stand the sight of me and accompany it with a snarl or a sneer. I imagine you could make something better of it, however. 'Bertram' or 'Bertie' would also serve the purpose just as well, or, if you think those are too chummy, you could always eschew the proper nouns entirely and go for some sort of _non nomen_ endearment, like 'love,' 'sweet,' 'darling,' or the like. Whatever you fancy, I suppose."

His right eyebrow quirked up to join the left. "As you wish, my dear...Bertram."

There was some oscular action then, the details of which I shan't go into. Nor am I going to tell you about how, minutes later, we moved our conversation to the master bedroom, and I'm certainly not going to reveal what happened there. Sorry to disappoint, but some things are simply meant to remain private.

On the other hand, I suppose it might be difficult for anyone to believe that such a reserved and proper chap as Jeeves could ever be _en_ the _deshabille_, especially if one has never seen this occurrence, which, I trust, you have not. Therefore, in order for you to truly understand the magnet...management...magnitude!..that's the word...to understand the magnitude of the thing, it must be explained to you. Fortunately, thanks to Lord Arran and that Welsh chap, Leo Abse, we don't have to worry anymore about being bunged into chokey for revealing too much. Still, those of a prudish nature may want to avert their eyes. Now that you have been duly warned, if you read on and are shocked or offended, you've no one to blame but yourself.

Now where was I? Ah yes, I was on the sofa with Jeeves, about to fall into a passionate embrace.

I leaned towards him, and he echoed the movement. Our touch was at first no more than a gentle brush, not quite a kiss, just one set of lips drifting over the other. This approach didn't last long, however. I tilted my head and opened my mouth and invited Jeeves inside, like a good host. Our tongues shook hands, so to speak, and quickly settled down to get to know each other intimately. Jeeves's advantage in height meant that I had to lean back and up to get the right angle, and before long, I was lying on the sofa, pinned to the cushions by Jeeves's weight over me, one leg trapped between his thighs. My free leg, however, wrapped around and slid against his in a most insistent manner.

I felt a stirring and swelling below the waistband and though that, if Jeeves were amenable to the suggestion, we might move things to the bedroom. Running my hand up and down his broad chest, I broke the kiss and swallowed thickly. "I know it's a bit early in the day and all, but, well, since we've already decided that the dust will wait until tomorrow, I was thinking a retreat to the bedroom might be in order, what?"

Jeeves said nothing, but he rose from the sofa and dragged me up with him, pulling me by the shoulder into a renewed lip lock with one hand while his other settled around the small of my back and pushed my hips against his. I gasped in Jeeves's mouth as the stiffness in his trousers pressed against my own. I interpreted these actions of his as an answer of "Yes, my dear Wooster, that would be most enjoyable."

Getting there, however, took more time and ingenuity than I expected, all because neither Jeeves nor I were keen to let go of the other, so, attached to each other as we were, the whole process turned into a bit of a three-legged race. Jeeves would take a step back, and I, my support suddenly taken from me, would stumble ahead wobbly as a drunk sailor on stilts back into the security of his arms. In this way, we finally made it to my bed.

Clothes were a challenge of their own. Jeeves slipped out of his jacket and waistcoat easily enough, but while he was busy with that, I became hopelessly entangled in my own jacket, my urgency to be free from the cloth causing me to pull and yank in a way which ultimately only made the situation worse. Jeeves, who, as a valet had much practice helping the young master undress, put his skills to good use and had me free in a thrice. His warm hands sliding down my arms, however, distracted me from my goal, and we spent the next five minutes ignoring clothes altogether and focusing on improving our kissing technique.

I thought that we were becoming quite adept��"masters in the field, I'm sure--when Jeeves resumed our original plan by yanking my shirt from my trousers and running his hands up the bare skin of my chest. This was, I felt, the most bally brilliant idea he'd had all day, and considering the fact that, knowing Jeeves, he had probably solved no less than three cosmic quandaries before breakfast, all in the privacy of his own mind, this really said something about the state of the Wooster. I moaned and let him undress me without interruption. Jeeves, dextrous man that he is, accomplished this speedily despite my anticipatory fidgeting and trembling.

I did not have the patience to allow Jeeves to undress himself��"for that activity would take his hands away from me and such a thing I simply could not allow. Nor did I have the nimbleness of finger to deal with his buttons on my own. Falling backwards onto my bed, I pulled Jeeves on top of me, squirming at the soft wool of his clothes scratching against my bare skin. Jeeves did not object to this peremptory action of mine. Rather he took it, as he took all my whims, in good stride, turning it to his own advantage. While I was reduced to clawing at the fabric of his shirt, Jeeves reached one hand down to stroke me. I bucked and gasped under his touch and yearned more than anything to increase this sensation of skin on skin, to feel it over every inch.

By the time it occurred to me that I might have been a bit hasty in not permitting Jeeves to remove his clothes, it was too late to do anything about it. Jeeves was already sliding down my body, out of my grasp, to kneel between my legs. Raising my head, I looked down at him and swore I would faint, so light-headed did I become at the sight of his wicked smirk. My head dropped back down with a pthop (that's the sound something dropping on a feather pillow makes, don't you know), and my mouth, now lacking any useful occupation seeing as Jeeves was too far away to engage it, rambled off on its own accord.

"I say, Jeeves, I say..."

Now, one might think that given the number of fillies who flung themselves in my direction, that I'd be a pat hand at this love making business��"a bit of a Don Juan. Nothing, however, could be further from the truth. This is not to say that I was a total innocent. I had gone to Eton and Oxford and knew what sorts of things lads get up to. It was just that my personal experience was a trifle lacking. I'd kissed plenty of beazels, but never got much excitement out of it. At Eton it was not uncommon for the boys to...give each other a hand, if you know what I mean. And once, while I was at Oxford, a young, blond History lecturer dragged me behind the rugby shed for a bit of rubbing. That, however, was about the extent of my carnal life before Jeeves.

I tell you this so that you'll understand that I was still easily overwhelmed and not entirely in my right senses, they being all muddled up by the magnificence of it all. So when Jeeves licked my cockstand from bottom to top I whined like a beagle puppy that had a bone dangled in front of his snout just out of reach.

"Oh, Jeeves, that's..." I ran my hands compulsively through his dark hair as he swallowed me down. I gasped, "That's...that's...oh, what's the French phrase when you don't know what something is? It's..."

Jeeves removed himself from my personage with a slurp. "_Je ne sais quoi_," he said brusquely and returned to his activity.

"Yes, that's the fellow. It's..." I inhaled sharply as Jeeves's warm, wet tongue painted my hard flesh. My legs tensed, contracting and spreading without my telling them to do so, and Jeeves was obliged to hold my hips down with his right forearm. His left hand, meanwhile, was stroking the soft and vulnerable skin in that inner hollow where the leg branches off from the body.

"Oh, do that...that thinggummy again...that you did last time...with your whatsits..." I ordered. Jeeves knew exactly what I meant and obeyed unhesitatingly. He pressed his thumb down just behind my plums and with even pressure drew it down until it just dipped into the lower entrance. My gasping squeaks became shorter and more insistent and my hips jerked wholly outside my control as I came to completion.

I panted like a man who'd run a marathon and felt nearly as wiped out, too. Jeeves was still between my legs, licking my inner thighs. It occurred to me that it tickled a bit, but I was too limp with bliss to care.

"I think we will have to do this more often," I declared. "Once a day, at least."

"I think I could arrange it into my schedule," he replied, shucking his shirt with remarkable haste. He then slipped his braces off his shoulders and slithered out of his trousers as far as he was able with his shoes still on. Giving my sensitive leg portions one last lick, he draped himself over me, lined up chest to chest, lips to lips. The heat of his cockstand was warm against my hip.

"I knew I'd forgotten something!" I exclaimed. "What can I do for you, Jeeves? Ask and ye shall receive."

After a quick kiss, Jeeves murmured in my ear. "If you will press your legs together..." He held my amorous bits up and out of the way so I could do as he asked without complications. This done, he positioned his hardness in the spit-slicked space between my thighs and thrust with a sigh.

I ran lazy fingers down his spine as he rocked against me, dropping little kisses down my throat. He was silent but for the sound of his heavy, shuddering breath.

"Jeeves, you don't say much. Why don't you say much?"

He muttered against my collarbone, so quietly I could barely hear, "I am trying to concentrate on the giving and receiving of joy. Conversation would be a distraction."

"Oh. Right. Sorry, old chap. Carry on."

He resumed his activities with vim and vigour. The warmth of his mouth wandering across my chest was delightful, as was the friction lower down. I mused that next time perhaps Jeeves should do this before I spent myself so that I could better appreciate it.

"You know, this works out rather well, but next time we should try this first, I think. It's dashed pleasant, but I think it would be better if I wmmphh." That last word didn't make it out in any sort of fit state because Jeeves's hand had rather suddenly come down and curtailed its exit. His palm was smooth against my lips, and almost as soon as I'd registered that his hand was covering my mouth, he raised it, and softened it to a caress, wetting his fingers in my half-open mouth. Inspired by who-knows-what I licked and sucked upon his fingers like he had done to my more intimate parts.

As I favoured his forefinger with a particularly fierce pursing of the lips, Jeeves jerked wildly between my legs and let out a deep groan, like a satisfied lion after a successful hunt. A splash of fluid dripped down my inner thighs and Jeeves's weight sagged on top of me.

"Jeeves," I said, pressing a peck of the lips on the tip of his nose. "Was I passable? Say something, Jeeves."

He snuffled out a laugh that stirred the hairs behind my ear. "Woe is me, for I am undone."

"Is that good?"

In response he raised himself up on his elbows to look into my eyes with powerful intensity. When I thought my heart would stop, overcome by the lines and textures in his wise, deep blues, he dipped his head and kissed me, slowly and resolutely. I realized that my heart, although pounding forcefully, was safe.

Later, as I lay curled in bed with one arm thrown around Jeeves's waist and my other hand brushing his black hair off his brow, I said with the authority of an Old Testament prophet. "Life is spiffing, my dear Jeeves."


	16. Epilogue

_From the pen of Dr. John H. Watson: In which all things end except the monuments to memory._

Epilogue

Holmes and I returned to our little secluded cottage on the Sussex Downs and all the familiar things that make it home: the violin and the Persian slipper, the pipe rack and the chemical apparatus, the many souvenirs of cases past, the rows of reference books on the shelves, and outside and around it all the drowsy hum of bees. We resumed our old, comfortable patterns and never spoke of Roberson.

As for the other persons with whom we shared this adventure, we never saw Mr. Wooster and his man Jeeves again, although Mr. Wooster sent a letter every year around Christmastime and I read about his many engagements and subsequent breaking of engagements in the society papers. A few years later I bought a book of Mr. Wooster's short stories and wrote him a kind letter of review. After that he sent me copies of each book as they were published. Holmes, in his typical fashion, rolled his eyes at them and called them "nonsense" and avowed that they had "as much artistic depth as a puddle" but I found them lively and charming--much like the author.

Inspector Cinwell was in hospital for two months, recovering first from the bullet wound and the collapsed lung, then a bout of pneumonia brought on by the buildup of fluid. Once he was discharged, he testified not just against Superintendent Adams, but against the whole system of corruption, as many people as he could name, stretching from the lowliest constable to the Assistant Commissioner. He received a lenient prison sentence for his compliance, but made many enemies both in the force and among the powerful criminal gangs. After his release, he set himself up as a private detective, but was murdered in his rooms not four months later. The murderer was never brought to trial. Holmes made a few deductions based on what we read in the papers and passed on the information to Lestrade, but the identity of the killer remained a mere hypothesis and no arrest was ever made.

I received only one notice of Mrs. Fordyce--Ettie--whose actions in betraying Roberson's location to us saved Holmes's life. She married a widower named Pritchard, who may or may not have been a criminal, but certainly had acquired a sizeable fortune through his agenda of purchasing what seemed to be every gambling establishment south of the Thames.

One might marvel that after my indiscreet writings caused so much trouble that I would again set down on paper such compromising details of our relationship, but many years have passed since the events related herein, and Holmes is no longer in any danger. He need "fear no more the frown of the great" as the Bard wrote. There is no risk to anyone but me.

This is more important than my reputation or safety, and in truth, I believe I have little to fear on that account. I am an old man now; what few enemies I may have had are dead and I do not doubt that I will soon follow. There is a compulsion to write my story down, a compulsion that dear Sherlock never understood. I feel as though if I do not inscribe it, if all knowledge of who we were, Holmes and I, what we were to each other passes out of memory and into oblivion, it will be as if none of it existed at all. I cannot bear that thought.

It may be that no one will ever read this, that, jumbled up with all my other notes and papers it will gather dust in the vaults of Cox and Co. and never see light. And yet so long as the words are there, the memory remains, even after I am gone. The lines of the poet Horace are my guide:

_I have fashioned a monument more lasting than bronze  
and loftier than the regal structure of the pyramids,  
a monument which neither devouring rain, nor fierce wind  
could destroy, nor the countless  
succession of years, or the flight of time.  
I shall not die entirely; the greater part of me  
will evade Death._


End file.
